Respawn Family
by captainbobbin
Summary: A Medic is faced with his daily challanges and battles - but as he settles into his team and family, a terrible vendetta leaves him at the will of an unforgiving enemy, with only his iron will and hope to survive. General fluff at some points, gore at others. Slight man on man at times.
1. A glitch in Respawn and Reprocussions

"Medic. . . . . Medic . . . .!"

No, no, no, he didn't like this, not one little bit. He was being shaken by a large warm hand on his shoulder, and the doctor screwed his eyes up tighter.

He was in the middle of a dream, where he was at home, in Germany, safe and warm and away from all the fighting and gore, able to laugh and have fun genuinely, without fear or memories of death, destruction and murder.

No, no, no, he didn't like this at all.

It wasn't right. He could laugh and have fun here. This _was_ home.

Finally, he awoke, eyes blurred, even with his circular glasses on, the ceiling blindingly white, as he realized he was in the Respawn Room, the room next to his own infirmary.

"Doktor . . ?" came a large voice that the Medic could not pinpoint. His head was heavy and vision swimming in the pale, sterile-smelling room.

Medic finally managed to sit up, shakily propping himself up onto his elbows. He felt as if he was detached from his body, like he was just rudely awakened from an utter comatose state for the first time in years.

The German doctor ran an ungloved hand over his face tiredly, pressing his fingers to his dark blue eyes, groaning quietly as a pounding headache revealed itself, thudding at his temples.

"Nhhnnh. . . . Vhere. . . .?" He muttered, lowering his hand, and trying to focus on the large man sitting a few feet away from him.

"Ah, Doktor! You're avake!" The Russian boomed, grinning at the smaller mans weary form.

Before Medic could ask what was going on, "Maggot!" suddenly was yelled from the hallway, and Soldier exploded through the double doors of the Respawn room.

"You worthless idiot!" The RED Soldier raged at the Medic, who was still slightly confused. "Where were you, you Nazi Bastard? You left us to die out there today!"

"Vhat? I. . . . I haven't done anyzing!"

"Exactly!"

"Soldier, leave ze Medic alone, he has only woken up just now, gives him moment." The Heavy shot a weak glare at the obviously not one-hundred-percent sane military man, and the Medic tried to sit up further, only to be met with sickening dizziness to wed with his headache.

" . . . . Ok, Heavy, tell me exactly vhat happened on ze battlefield today, ja?" The German rubbed an eye again, fully willing to just curl up and go back to sleep.

"Vell. . . " The large, bald man placed two fingers at his square chin, thinking. "Ve vere is ze battle, and you vere behind me, healing me, when a BLU Soldier shot a rocket over towards us, I think. It missed me, and I turned to see if you vere alright, but you must have been blown backvards by ze blast. Zhen, you vere gone, I did not see you for rest of battle."

The Medics sharp eyebrows furrowed.

"Okay. . ."

The German managed to swing his legs over the side of the gurney he was laying on, and ran a pale hand through his thick brown hair.

"I remember being zeperated by ze rocket. . . .I was forced backwards and was hit by some shrapnel . . . . I zink I remember dying, again. . . . Vas I really gone for ze rest of the day?"

"Of course you were. I have no idea where you went, Doc, but we didn't see you again." The soldier seemed to have calmed down a little, but that man was never predictable when it came to his mood swings, especially after a battle.

The Medic heaved a deep sigh, resting his elbows upon his knees and burying his face in his unmarked, flawless hands. God, he had never felt so tired.

"Vell, Soldier, I don't know vhat to say. I remember being hit by ze rocket and dying. Then I voke up here. I did not miss ze fight on purpose, I assure you."

"Hmn."

"How long was I out, anyvay?"

"Four hours."

"Vhat?" The brunette surgeon sharply looked up at the taller Heavy, who had a confused look upon his face. "Is . . . . Is zere somezhing wrong with ze Respawn Machine . . .? Usually it takes about ten minutes at ze most, doesn't it? Is everyone else ok?"

"It's worked fine for everyone else, Doc."

The doctors' head suddenly filled with equations and processes concerning the device.

"No, no, no, zis is not good."

The Machine had never broken down before, and it had worked fine for the rest of the day . . . why had it messed up for him?

"Doktor, you sure you alright?"

The Medic only let out a low groan in response, rubbing his forehead. He was still so goddamn exhausted. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Ach . . . I'm fine, Herr Heavy. . . .I'm just not feeling vone hundred percent." The German smiled tiredly up at his long-time friend, and attempted to slip off the gurney, only to fall to his knees completely.

Heavy was immediately to his side, trying to help him up by he shoulders, ignoring the protests of "No, I'm fine, honestly."

The RED man heaved his friend back upon the hospital bed, and the Medic gave a weak "I'm fine." in response to the questioning gaze the larger had offered.

"Well, I think you should fix yourself up, Doc, and fast. Get the Respawn checked, find your coat and gloves, and don't forget that it's your turn to make dinner tonight. That is all." The Soldier spun on his heel and marched through the double doors, and it took the German a minute to process what he had said.

Coat and gloves . . .?

Looking down upon his own hands, it dawned upon the brunette that his red rubber gloves were missing, and as he looked down at his chest, he found a bloodstained shirt and tie.

" . . . Vhere. . ?"

"Doktor, are you still half-asleep?" The Russian beamed down at him, before turning to dig in a box under a desk, pulling out some spare gloves and handing them to the dazed healer. "I think you should have some sleeping time, Medic. You look like it is needed."

The doctor closed his eyes and heaved himself off of the gurney again, this time managing to stay on his feet. "Danke, kamerad, for everything. . . I think you may be right, Heavy. . . I feel awful." He let out a chuckle, folding the gloves and placing them on the desk, where he would get them later, after a short nap.

"Could . . . could you do me a favor, Herr Heavy?"

"Of course!" The man clapped a huge hand on the smaller doctors back, almost winding him.

"I'm going to sleep for a while. . . In an hour or so, could you get Herr Engineer to visit me, please?"

"Sure, Doktor!" Again, the hand descended upon his back, making the brunette stumble, but he chuckled a little at the kindly weapon expert.

The Medic dazedly smiled up at the man, who ruffled the dark hair, as if his doctor was a pet, and then turned to exit, stopping shortly at the door.

"Do not forget dinner time, Doktor!"

"Ja, I von't."

The double doors swung shut, the doctor left alone, and Medic heaved a deep sigh. Stumbling, he exited the Respawn room and edged into his infirmary, where another gurney was placed in the centre, and a stronger, stationary version of his Medi-gun bolted to the ceiling.

The Medic briefly wondered if his weapon could heal tiredness. Letting out another sigh, he drifted over to the gun, flicking a few odd switches and standing in front of the nozzle.

Warm rays of red energy bathed over him, lifting his spirits a little and relieving a few achy joints, the odd tingling sensation washing over him like a hot bath.

Clicking off the machine, the doctor rotated his shoulders. His headache was a lot duller but still there, and his tiredness had been lifted only slightly.

Medic heaved himself up upon the gurney stretched in front of the gun. Unlike the rest of the team, he never really claimed a bedroom, and never felt the need of sleep much, always absorbed in his work, duties and taking care of the rest of the team. As he lay upon the bed on his stomach, a smile flitted across his face at the thought of being a father figure to them.

"Dummkopfs."

* * *

It had been just over an hour, and Heavy sat in the 'Living' room, flicking through some old magazine. It wasn't a proper living room; it had just been dubbed such by the Scout, Pyro and Sniper, and was filled with mundane, time-passing things and a few old sofas. When no one had many duties, or it was one of those days in between battles, the team hung out there, involved in their own activities.

Currently, Scout and Pyro were heavily involved in some dull board game, and the Russian half expected the Pyro to attempt setting the cardboard game on fire if he lost.

It was unusual for Sniper, Medic, Spy, Soldier or Engie to be there, as they were usually most busy, and often it was only the Scout and Pyro in the room itself. However, today seemed slow after battle, and Sniper sat with his chair lent back, leaning on a wall, booted feet crossed on top of the table, while Spy fiddled silently with his cloaking device, his famous silver cigarette case. The Snipers hat was tilted, and Heavy didn't expect him to be awake. Besides Medic, he probably got the least sleep, often patrolling the grounds and finding new places to scope from.

A quiet beep came from the corner, then a French-accented "Humph.", and Heavy saw the Snipers eyes move from under his hat and warm tinted glasses.

"Watsa matter now, mate?"

"Hmm. Nozzing."

"Keep quiet then. I'm tryin' ta take a nap 'ere."

It didn't take the room long to become loud, especially as a butterfly knife became imbedded into the Snipers thigh, and Scout and Pyro's rambunctious laughter echoed though the room, mocking the Australian.

"Jesus, mate, there was no need for that!"

"Keep quiet,_ mate_. I am trying to work here."

The Sniper hobbled to stand, the knife stuck on the inside of his leg.

"Bah," came from Heavy and he stood, moving to the smaller man. "Is tiny baby wound. Here-"

With one strong pull, Heavy yanked the knife out. "There. Is no problem."

"Cheers mate." Sniper leant against the wall, inspecting the hole in his jeans and the tiny cut. The hole wasn't deep at all, but there were speckles of blood.

"Ya think I should go ta Medic?"

"Oh, дерьмо!" Heavy swore in Russian, quickly tossing the knife back to the table -caught without looking by the Spy- and he rushed from the room.

* * *

"Engineer! Engineer!"

"Hm?"

The helmeted man turned from his place, sat on a fallen tree outside the base, working unfalteringly on schematics and blueprints.

"Medic vanted some help, little while ago." Heavy managed once he had caught up with the Texan. "He says Respawn Machine acting up, being wrong."

"Hmm, acting up? That don't sound right, big fella. Nothin' wrong with it earlier." The goggle-clad male turned back to his work, and Heavy crossed his thick arms in stubbornness.

"Medic was not in battle most of today because of Machine being wrong."

". . . he wasn't in battle?" The yellow helmet tilted as Engie didn't turn around, focusing on his work.

"Doktor respawned today and did not vake up for four hours."

Finally the Texan turned. "Four hours? Now that ain't right. Alright, I'll take a look at 'er. Where's the Doc now?"

"He went to bed, not feeling good."

* * *

"Doktor?" came quietly, sounding odd from such a large, loud man, as Heavy's head poked around the door of Medics infirmary. "Medic?"

Heavy found the German he was looking for sprawled out upon the gurney he himself had been on many times for surgery and check-ups, lying flat out on his stomach, arms beneath a pillow to give his head some more height.

Heavy smiled, it was incredibly rare to see the doctor be relaxed at all, let alone sleeping. The large man silently – or as silently as he could be – crept up to face the brown haired man, kneeling so their faces were at the same height.

His small glasses were crooked on his face and the doctors' mouth slightly open as a quiet snore passed his lips. His usually flawless hair was messy and the Medic was still wearing his clothes.

Delicately, Heavy took the glasses from the mans face, trying not to crush them. He had heard Medic and Sniper conversing once upon the fact that sleeping while wearing glasses always resulted in bent frames and headaches.

Placing them on a table to the side, Heavy turned back to the smaller man, to see his tired eyes open.

". . . Vhat . . . ?"

"You shouldn't zleep in your glasses, Doktor. "

"Mhhn." The Medic grinned and rubbed a smoky eye lazily. "Vhere is ze Engineer . . .? Is he-"

"Engineer is looking at Machine, do not vurry, leetle Doktor. You do that too much."

"Ja, it is my job to."

The German managed to sit up, his shirt crinkled and stuck to his skin, a few dried blood stains remaining from battle earlier. That reminded him; he needed to find his coat.

Rolling onto his back, Medic rubbed his eyes a little, the white walls of the infirmary not unsimilar to those of the Respawn room, and the contrast of the paint to the dark realms of sleep made him reel slightly.

Rotating his shoulders and releasing a sigh when they clicked, Medic sat up and slid off the gurney, smiling and holding out a hand to his friend, who took it and stood, the Russian towering over him.

"You feeling better, leetle Medic?"

Medic let out a chuckle and grinned. "Better than I vas, Herr Heavy. Don't vurry."

A large hand clapped on his back, softer than before, and the two started to leave the pale medical room.

* * *

The dining table was rarely calm, and this evening was no different, the team crowded around, sat waiting for food, talking and laughing about everything and nothing.

Spy and Sniper seemed to have made amends, the two sat next to each other, the usually quiet marksman often pointing to the agents cloaking device and offering help or suggestions to whatever it was the Spy was doing to it.

Scout leaned close to where Pyro's ear would be and muttered- "Ten bucks he's playin' Minesweeper, bro."

Demoman had finally appeared, tipsy, but no surprises for anyone there.

Engineer came in late, overalls covered in a layer of grease and oil, and sat next to Heavy, who was intent on listening to the others rather than talking, as his Medic was busy in the conjoining kitchen.

"Hey, partner."

"Привет, Engineer." The Heavy smiled down at the shorter male.

"Got that Machine up an' runnin' like a beaut. Should be alright now."

"You find out vhat problem is?"

"Nope, just seemed like a glitch ta me, partner. Don't quite rightly now what happened to the Doc today, but it shouldn't happ'n 'gain."

As if he could hear the mention of his name, the Medic spun out of the kitchen, balancing plates all across his arms and one on his head, wearing a clean, crisp new shirt and tie. He had found his coat earlier, but being in the middle of the desert and working over a hot stove in a thick long-coat was claustrophobic.

The doctor set the plates down in front of some of the members, going back for more.

Heavy ended up craning his neck to see what they had received, and was met with the sight of a hot stew, one of the many meals Medic seemed to perfect. It was, from what the giant of a man could see, steaming and rich, and Heavy grinned in anticipation. Medic _always_ made the best food.

Medic finally sat with his own plate, handing Heavy his own and sitting next to the man, grinning up at him as the weapons experts' green-blue eyes light up.

Conversation was light and airy, everyone enjoying the food, including the Pyro, who lifted his mask to eat.

"So Doc, I checked the Respawn for ya." Came from Engie, and Medic leaned forward to see around Heavy to meet with goggle-framed eyes.

"Ja? Anyzing out of ze ordinary?"

"'Fraid not, normal as ever."

"Hmn. Unusual."

"What's that about?" came from the other end of the table, the Sniper becoming interested.

"Ah, the Respawn Machine glitched today, zhats all."

"Hmm." Came from the French Spy. "Possible work of my counterpart?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if he's as much of a slimy git as you." The Sniper muttered nonchalantly, but smirked all the same.

"Say zat again and you will end up with a matching scar on your ozzer thigh, bushman."

He remained quiet yet his smirked remained.

Heavy grinned. His team, it was fun to be a part of it. Each member was different but there was a lot of love and connection between them.

About to say something, he turned to his doctor, only to see the shorter man looking dreamily deep in thought and his blue eyes wandering over the table's inhabitants silently.

"Doktor . . .?" Heavy murmured lowly, catching the younger males attention, but no ones else's.

"Ja?"

"You alright?"

The Medic met his question eyes and gave a little smile. "Ja, just thinking."

"Da? Vhat about?"

The Medic smiled and looked at every member of his team from across the table. His run-in with death and the possibility of not respawning today got him thinking.

"Ve're like a family, ja? Ve vurk together, live together, help each other. . . .Ve do good, don't ve?"

A warm arm enclosed the Medics shoulders and Heavy brought him into a hug, grinning.

"Da, Doktor. We are family."


	2. In which Bravery is proven

"Doktor-"

"Nooo."

"Doktor-"

"No!" Medic swatted a hand airily in the direction of the large Russian, attempting to bury his head further under his pillow.

"Doktor!"

"Nein- Ack!"

The world spun upside down and Medic found himself being held up by the ankle, high above the ground, eye level with Heavy, glaring at him lightly.

"Is time for vake up, Doktor."

"Neeeeiin." Medic squirmed in the uncomfortable grip and grabbed a pillow, batting the giant weapons expert across the face. "Put me doooown! I vas asleep! Down!"

The German kicked out a little, squirming upside down, still half asleep and glaring from the bright walls of the infirmary.

"Nyet, Doktor, it is time to vake up, you overslept."

The Heavy was silenced by another hit across his face by the soft pillow, making him chuckle lowly at the brunettes futile attempts to escape the one-handed hold.

"Down, dummkopf, down!

"Nyet. Are you awake yet?" The larger of the two grinned as the smaller looked down- or up in his case- as if truly realizing he was upside down, and windmilled his arms a little.

"Never. I don't care if I have overslept, put. Me. Down!"

Another hit with the pillow.

Heavy practically dropped the German back on the bed, who leapt off onto the other side and threw the soft cushion at the Russians face, and darted away from him before he could throw it back.

It quickly turned into a game, the younger, smaller of the two jumping over, or crawling over the gurney bed to escape the larger, older of the two's pillows, tossing them back between themselves, each trying to score a hit.

Laughter echoed around the infirmary, as well as the grunts from being hit by the cushioned ammunition.

As the brunette tried to slide under the bed yet again, the gargantuan man caught an ankle again, and pulled him out, earning a squawk and a few German curses, lifting the man as he had before, high above his head so their faces were even heights.

"Now ve are even later."

"And I still vant to go back to zleep." The doctor grinned at the other, before folding his hands behind his back, as if he was upright and in the middle of a normal conversation.

The bald weapons expert chuckled and let him down gently, allowing the thin shoulders of the healer to touch the bed before dropping his legs.

Sitting up and rubbing an eye sleepily, the Medic smiled and reached for his glasses, settling them in their usual position, before sliding off of the gurney again.

Wrapping a large arm around his friends slim shoulders, Heavy lead them outside.

"I hope you realise I von that fight, Herr Heavy."

"There is alvays time for rematch. We vill see, leetle doktor."

* * *

Breakfast was mild and lighthearted, most of the team hardly eating the syrupy, but mostly burnt pancakes the Pyro had cooked, besides Scout, who Medic was sure had lead lining in his gut and wasn't just eating to spare his friends feelings.

After a quiet breakfast, preparations began for the days battle, the team splitting up to get their stuff together, each member collecting weapons, changing into specific clothes, and preparing mentally for the bloody gorefest just outside their door.

Clad in his long-coat and red gloves, Medi-Gun on his back, the Medic stood behind his Heavy, the small room crowded and the air thick.

The tension before the fight,

This was not even the worst part, not even close.

The alarm rang out, the metal gates opened, and the RED Team raged out, yelling out battle cries.

It was like before, the Medi-Gun shuddering in his hands as he continuously over-healed his large friend, who stood in front of him, Sascha blazing down all in her way.

The scream of an approaching rocket caught the Germans attention, and as it came into the peripherals of his sharp view, the brunette pulled off his healing charge, and pushed the other forward, making the man stumble out of the area the blast would directly hit.

"Doktor! Vhat-!"

The Russian turned as the rocket hit between them, blinding him with a cloud of thick, black smoke and fiery shrapnel.

"Doktor!"

Medic was blown far backwards, hitting the floor with his arm crushed beneath him, all his weight pushed down from the blast, and there was a definite crack while stars swam behind one of his eyes.

Groggy, the German supported himself on one hand, forcefully grabbing a BLU Scouts ankle as he passed and swiftly finishing him with a sharp slice with his bonesaw. Kid never saw it coming. War was fast, but the doctor was faster.

Stumbling to stand and cradling his arm, the Medic swung out his Medi-Gun. He was no where near finished and would not allow himself to die again. He did not trust the Respawn Machine like he had, especially with the foreboding sense of déjà vu hanging over him.

Running to catch up with Heavy, the brunette leapt over a ridge in the cliff side.

Had he really been projected this far? Throwing himself over the drop, he managed to slice a Soldiers arm with his saw, forcing the American to lose grip on his weapon, before dropping down, continuing after the Russian.

Heavy was only a little way in front of him, yelling out a battle cry as a few bullets whizzed passed his arms and skimmed his flesh.

Finally catching up, the Medic thrusted the handle of the Medi-Gun forward, bathing the Russian in a red healing light, protecting him.

Turning his head slightly, the weapons expert bellowed back to him "Doktor?"

"Shut up and fight, you dummkopf!"

* * *

The light above the infirmary door glowed dully as members of the team sat in moderate silence outside, Heavy folding his ticket into a neat little square.

Spy had been sat in front of him before, cradling a heavily bleeding shoulder with the Sniper poking him every so often to get a response.

The bushman now leant back in his own chair, hat tilted, and Heavy wondered briefly what exactly was wrong with him- he didn't seem injured at all.

Pyro was practically silent next to him, clicking a lighter quietly, seeming to watch the dancing flames, poking them lightly, and the Russian could hear a tiny chuckle from him every time the tiny fire shimmered.

Demoman had already drained the last drops from a brown bottle and had seemed to have passed out, lounging across three of the chairs, his eye-patched head lolling against the Snipers shoulder, who inched away slightly, proving he wasn't as asleep as he made out to be.

Soldier stood straight as a pole, besides the pale double-doors, silent, or course.

Heavy _hated _the quiet.

He was a loud man by nature and long waits cut into him more than a sharpened kukri.

Finally, between the intervals of thick drunken snoring and light metallic clicks, a melodic noise rang out, the crimson light above the door shut off, and Spy stepped out, holding his suit jacket in his arms.

He strode through the gap in the chairs, smug, as if he had just passed an important test for the first time with flying colours, and that expression was only marred when Sniper deliberately crossed his long legs as the Frenchman attempted to step over them, stumbling. The undercover agent shot a weak glare at the Australian, who flashed a grin and tilted his hat as an acknowledgement at the masked man, who then shook his head with a smile and continued to exit.

The number on the wall flicked over automatically, and Heavy found that it was his turn.

Gingerly stepping through the double doors, the Russian found his German gently stroking one of his doves, nonchalantly rubbing the back of his finger against the white feathery chest, smiling, his back to the expert.

"Medic . . .?"

"Hmn?"

The brunette turned, his left arm in a sling and a pad of gauze over his right eye, behind his small, circular glasses.

"Doktor? Vhat happened?"

"Zhis? Oh." The doctor flicked his finger; the white dove in his hand flying off instinctively to some dark corner of the well-lit room. Its owner seemed absent-minded. "It vhas just a hit by ein Soldier. Do not vurry yourself, Herr Heavy. Now, vhat seems to be ze problem?"

The injured man ushered the other to the gurney, which Heavy sat upon, the bed creaking lightly.

"I have a few gun pellets in my shoulder, Doktor." The larger of the two smiled tiredly. It seemed that the continuous fighting lately had gotten to him as well as the younger doctor.

Peeling off his protective Kevlar, Heavy rotated a damaged shoulder and Medic moved behind him, placing his unbroken, pale hand on the broad back. Three small holes were leaking blood, three little silver bullets embedded in the soft layers of skin. Moving to face the Heavy, the brunette rummaged through a box of tricks, ultimately pulling out some tweezers and a few rolls of bandages.

"Doktor?"

"Ja?"

"Vhy haven't you healed your arm and your eye?"

A dark little chuckle came from the man "I rely on my Medi-Gun too much, and your and ze others' vounds are more important. Now, I von't lie, Heavy. Zis vill sting."

* * *

Breaking into a fort when everyone asleep is as the Sniper would say, "A piece of piss".

Tiptoeing past door after door, he finally found the one he needed.

The double doors didn't creak as he stepped though, and his steel-blue eyes were met with the sight of the Medic asleep across a gurney, stomach down, head sideways, and a light snore passing his lips.

Childs play.

His back was even facing him! Easiest kill ever.

Pulling out his butterfly knife and twirling it around his hands, he raised his arm, just ready to strike. . .

When the tip of a matching knife was suddenly poking at his jugular.

Dark blue eyes glinted in the faint moonlight and Medic sat up the rest of the way, him and the BLU Spy at a stalemate, his arm still wrapped in bandages, the gauze of his eye gone along with his glasses, revealed a swollen, blackened bruise, the orb almost shut from pain.

"Ah." Came from the Spy.

"Oui." Came from the other, and the German quickly dissolved into the French, and stood, matching his counterpart.

"I assume you know why I am here?"

"But of course. Sapping our sentries must be so _dull _after a while, why not kill us instead?" Sarcasm dripped from every word.

The BLU sighed, lowering his knife. "You know as much as I do that it was all in good fun."

"All in good fun? Our Medic almost died. For real." The RED lowered his own blade

"Bah. That vhas his fault zhen." The BLU opened his silver case and struck up a cigarette.

"Ah, ah, ah! Non, non, you do not smoke in here. Medic vould disapprove"

"Ja, I vould."

From the shadows, a light switch was flicked, illuminating the room and revealing the injured doctor, the dove sat on his shoulder, and the large Russian stood beside him,

"If you please, remove ze cigarette, Herr BLU Spy."

The Frenchman smirked, and stubbed it out of the floor.

A low laugh came from the doctor.

"Now, Herr Spy, I vould like you to leave before I cut off anozzer of your body parts and keep it in mein fridge to keep your old head company, ja? Oh, and don't bother trying to sneak around and sap ze Respawn Machine. Ve are too clever for you."

Another smirk, and the Spy promptly fiddled with his cloaking device, evaporating into thin air.

"I assure you," A disembodied voice muttered "Next battle; I'll give our Medic your head, perhaps. . . "

"I look forvard to it."

And then his presence was gone, and the room empty besides the three humans and the multiple sleeping birds.

Smiling, the Medic walked over to the remaining RED Spy, who flicked away his knife, and took the doctors hand in his own, shaking it, and then pulling the man into a hug, patting his back, the resting dove of the brunettes shoulder flapping away in surprise.

"Danke, Herr Spy."

"Not at all. Simple repayment for my shoulder earlier, monsieur Medic."

They split away, and the Spy disappeared like his counterpart had; only this time, his footsteps were allowed to be heard.

"Any more trouble vith him, just tell me. . . .Or Pyro."

The door the BLU had come in from closed, the Spy gone, and Medic turned to Heavy, smiling a little, before adjusting his glasses with his good arm, careful not to brush his covered black eye.

The Heavy grinned tiredly down at the smaller European.

"And dankeschön to you, Herr Heavy. It vas good to know you vere behind me vith this."

"Da, Doktor, no problem. Next time, don't even bother vith ze Spy or Pyro, just come get me, I take care of puny baby Spy."

The doctor let out a laugh, rubbing his unhurt yet tired eye, and patted his friends shoulder.

"Ist late, mein Heavy. I zhink you need as much sleep as I do."

"Da, Doktor. Come on."

The taller of the two took the doctors hand and started to lead him out.

"Vait, vhat? Heavy?"

"Hospital bed not comfy. You zleep in mine tonight, Medic."

"B-But. . . .Alright. . . . Just zhis vonce."

Defeated, Medic allowed himself to be warmed in a proper bed for once, where he would wake up in his friends' arms, his own broken and on the mend.


	3. A Kind Heart to reinforce Ferocity

The first thought to enter his head upon waking up was _'Oh mein gott, I'm so comfy. It's so good to be in a nice warm bed for once.'_

The second thought swiftly followed, as if realizing exactly what the first was.

'_What in the world did I do last night and where am I? '_

The Medic finally opened his left eye, his right still covered in gauze. He was fully tempted to stretch himself out to his full length, and sigh contently at the initial feeling of having a full nights sleep in the warm, soft bed, but he became aware of something restricting him, and not only the sling around his arm.

Warm breath circled his ear, and the brunette felt something large and warm curl closer to him.

He was in a bed. He didn't have a bed.

Scheiße.

Heavy.

Then it came flooding back to him, echoing behind his good, glasses-less eye.

Fighting, healing, not dying, talking to RED Spy, outsmarting BLU Spy, Heavy telling him he needed sleep, and making him take his bed.

He had to admit though, his friend was goddamn warm, especially when the older of the two shifted in his sleep, wrapped an arm around his slim waist and pulled the German a little closer to his sleeping form.

He heard the man shift, and he assumed, wake up, before the larger sat up a little.

" . . . . . . Doktor. . . .?"

Heavy couldn't see his friends eyes to tell is he was awake or not, the brunettes back to his stomach and the eye he would have been able to see was covered in the gauze.

Medic felt a finger poke his back and let out a chuckle, and tilted his head to the man, still unable to see.

"Are you avake?"

A smirk played on his lips, before he turned his head back.

"Nein."

A low laugh came from the Russian, who petted a brown-haired head, before sitting up completely, about to slide off of the double bed.

"Come on, Medic, is time for vake up again. Or . . . do I have to finish pillow fight?"

His answer came in the form of the warm cushion that he had been laying on hitting the back of his hairless head.

* * *

A smug look of triumph seemed to stick upon the brunettes face as he and his friend walked to the breakfast room.

"You know I vas going easy on you because you are hurt."

"You are just angry because I von, even with a broken arm und vone eye."

The larger of the two only gave a slight shove to the smaller, making him stumble on purpose, both chuckling.

About to retaliate, both the Medic and his Heavy froze as a girlish squeal echoed from behind the closed doors of the breakfast room.

Upon opening the door, both the weapons expert and the doctor found the Scout flailing and shouting, pointing to something that appeared to be invisible and running around into what seemed to be the absolute corners of the room.

"Kill it! Oh my god, kill it, kill it!" Scout shouted, flailing and grabbing his bat, about to swing straight down upon the creature before the Medic stepped in.

Medic had seen whatever it was that the Scout was threatening before Heavy had, and blocked the down-coming bat with his broken arm, not even flinching, his face hard and set and shadowed. The teenager took a step back, eyes wide at the elder, especially when the German pointed a finger to his face, glaring.

"Nein."

It was simple, but the boy lowered the weapon, both he and Heavy staring as Medic knelt to the thing in the corner.

A small, dark-furred rat lay scuttling at the walls, as if trying to climb up and away from the skinny beast that had attempted murder upon it.

The Russian watched in absolute fascination as his friend knelt, and gently scooped the creature into his pale hands, cooing lightly and running a finger over its heaving back, the rodent panting from fear.

"You've scared zhe poor little zhing half to death, you _Tier."_ The doctor glared at the Scout, petting the rats' fur lightly and his German coming through, before threateningly nearing the boy. "I do not vish to see anyzing innocent in zhis base hurt ever again, you hear me? Zhere is enough suffering out zhere on zhe battlefield; ve don't need anymore in here, especially to something that has done nozhing to any of us."

Scout nodded dumbly, silent and scared by the ball of fur in his untwitching hands, but more so of his angry elder.

Facing the Heavy, Medic smiled, as if nothing had happened.

"Herr Heavy, vould you mind saving me some breakfast? I zhink I should go give mein kleiner Freund a place to live, and check on mein arm." The doctor chuckled, looking down at the tiny animal and grinning when two beady eyes glinted up at him, and Heavy nodded, smiling to see his doctor happy at something, despite his anger before.

"Da, Doktor, no problem."

* * *

Not twenty minutes later, the large Russian crept into the infirmary, silent, the doctors back to him as his sat on the gurney.

"Doktor-"

The man leapt a mile, startled as he turned half-way to face the man, realizing his friend had brought him breakfast. A plate sat beside the giant of a man, four triangles of buttered toast upon the porcelain, and the German smiled. His comrade knew him too well.

Turning back to whatever he was doing, the short-haired man spoke, and the Russian could hear the humor in his voice.

"You startled me, kamerade, but danke for bringing me mein food."

The older smiled. He secretly enjoyed seeing the serious, quiet doctor be flustered and sometimes confused. It was almost adorable. He heard a quiet squeak from the physicians pale hands, and Heavy remembered the rat.

"So, vhat is going to happen to tiny baby rat?"

The doctor let out a laugh "Oh, I'm keeping him, my friend. Zhe poor zhing must be scared vitless. . .and he seems to have become qvite taken vith me."

Heavy watched in amusement as the brownish-black furred rodent scurried up the rolled-up-sleeved arm, and ended up upon the mans shoulder, where the creature sat and settled, giving a tiny squeak as the German turned to his friend and leant against his desk.

"Its not like I can let zhe little guy go. He could be killed on zhe battlefield without any of us noticing. And it's not like I don't have zhe space." The man indicated to the large infirmary, before taking one of his pieces of toast, chewing thoughtfully.

"I suppose I need to zhink of a name for you, ja?" He ripped off a tiny corner of the bread, handing it to the animal and grinning when it took it and also ate.

"Vhat about Einstein?"

"Excuse me?"

"A name for tiny rat. He is smart, brave rat. Einstein!" The Russian grinned. A clever name for a clever pet of a clever man. Medic let out a laugh, handing the rat another chunk of the toast.

"How about Zalker?"

"Jenson?"

"Hmm . . . . Vhat abouuut. . . .Winzig?" The German smiled softly, rubbing the pad of a finger on the spot between the rodents' two fleshy ears.

"Vhat does zhat mean?"

"Is German for 'small' or 'tiny'. I zhink it suits him."

"You can call him 'Ziggy' for short!" Heavy laughed a little. It was nice, having this friendship. They could share jokes, do stupid stuff, not feel awkward about anything. . . . It was . . . nice. He had never had this kind of friendship with anyone, even when back in Russia.

"Ja, I zhink I like zhat. Ziggy." The German grinned, taking the ball of fur and placing him upon the desk, before taking some more toast, biting into it. "I'm sure he und ze doves vill get along well."

"I hope so, Doktor. By the way. . ." The Heavy stood, and poked the doctor on the chest.

"Vhen you going to heal your arm and eye?"

"I-I vas going to give it zome time, you know, let it heal by itzelf."

"Doktor, ve have no battle today, but vhat about tomorrow? Or day after? You need to heal, and get rest."

The Medic gave a little noise that came from the back of his throat, looking away, and Heavy placed his large hands on the slim shoulders, making the younger look at him through his good eye.

"Doktor, I know it is hard to be healing people and fighting, I know you have a lot more vork than most of us do, but zhats vhy you need to heal. You need to learn to use zhe Medi-Gun more. How are ve supposed to vork in battle and vin if we do not have you? Ve cannot vin without you, you are backbone of team."

A stroke of guilt slid across the doctors sharp features, and he opened his mouth to speak, before Heavy took a step back and towards the mounted gun.

"You need to use her." A thick finger pointed at the healing machine, and Medic gave a low sigh, his visible eye flicking between the larger man and the weapon.

"Ja. . . Yes. . . I zuppose you are right, mein Heavy." A brief smile flitted across the brunettes face. "Ve are a family after all. Imagine vhat would happen if I vasn't here." The German chuckled lowly, moving towards the weapons expert and flicking a few switches, the gun coming to life and ready to work.

Giving the taller man a fleeting smile, he clicked one last switch before being engulfed in warm red rays of healing energy.

The odd sensation of the bone in his arm crackling back together was on he hoped he didn't have to feel again anytime soon.

* * *

If a stranger were to look in, it probably would have seemed odd; a giant, bald man lovingly and obsessively cleaning a minigun, erupting into fits of loud laughter from the jokes a small, slim man was telling, who was equally cleaning his weapon, a rat on one shoulder that was the same shade fur as his dark ebony-chestnut hair, and a pure ivory dove on the other shoulder, both animals curled up and asleep.

Medic stretched and leant back on the sofa, tilting his body so his legs were laying over the other mans and Sascha, and the Heavy shot a fake glare, poking the doctor lightly under the leg, making the younger jolt lightly with a yelp.

They sat in the living room, which was busy for it only being midday, and only the Sniper and the Engineer missing from the room, both catching up on their own chores and work.

Scout seemed to be avoiding the doctor, perhaps because of his new pet that lay sleeping on his shoulder, but he and the Pyro seemed to be locked in a game of 'Lets-gossip-and-point-at-the-other-team-members-until-they-notice'.

The Spy was distracted and absent-minded, watching the Soldier and Demomans game of snooker while flicking his butterfly knife, the sharp clacking of the balls, cues and sides of the table not deterring his artistic flipping and twirling.

"Hey, Medic. What's that thing on your shoulder?" The Soldier asked, looking up from under his helmet and over his game, noticing the bundle of fur.

"His name is Winzig, Herr Soldier."

"Oh my god, you _named_ it, Doc?" Came from Scout, interrupting, horrified, and the physician looked over at him.

"Scout, I am a doctor. It is my job to take care of those that need me, and that doesn't exclude animals. All ze birds I have in mein infirmary are all doves zhat I have found injured, und zhis rat was one you vere going to kill. I don't care vhat anyvone says. He stay vith me."

"Zhe doctor is a good man, Scout." Came from the Spy, who hadn't looked up from his weapon. "I wouldn't do anyzhing to annoy him, or you next trip to his medical bay may be your last, hm?" the Frenchman smirked, and looked up, eyes going from the disgruntled teenager to the amused German.

"Danke, Herr Spy."

"Not at all."

"I think baby Scout is just scared rat vill end up inside him, like leetle bird does sometimes." Heavy commented, still focused upon Sascha, and the Medic let out a laugh.

"Ja, how about zhat, Scout? Next time you end up vounded and angry vith me, I'll sneak Ziggy into your intestinal tract somevhere, ja?"

"Doc, if you were on the other team, I hope you know that you would be the first guy I'd want to kill."

"You vouldn't get the chance."

"Oh and why's that, deutch-bag?"

"Baby Scout vould be dead before he hits floor." Came from Heavy, and he earned a few chuckles from the rest of his family, especially his doctor.

Yes, a family. A murderous, killing, insulting family. But family nonetheless.

* * *

"You sure you don't vant my bed again?"

"Ah, I could not burden you like zhat again, my friend. Besides, I think Ziggy vill end up sleeping close to me. Imagine if we slept together and you ended up rolling over und crushing him."

The two laughed, sat in the infirmary yet again, the doctor tugging off his red tie as his friend held the small rat, trying not to squish or scare him.

"He seems not to mind me. I think he likes me holding him."

Medic turned and grinned.

"I zhink it's because you have big hands. Lots of space for him to move."

A single, gloveless hand scooped up the rodent from the other mans, and the creature swiftly scurried up the Medic's arm, sitting upon his shoulder again, a habit Ziggy appeared to want not to break.

The Heavy gave a soft smile, watching the usually calm, calculating doctor play with the small animal energetically. He looked happy, but he always did with animals around him.

"Doktor is good man. I am glad he has leetle rat now."

"Hm?" Medic looked up. "Oh, danke, Herr Heavy. I'm glad you think so."

"I'm glad mean Scout did not sqvuish tiny rat."

"I-"

"Rat makes Doktor happy. And that makes me happy."

Heavy stood, and patted the brunette on the hair – which he noticed he had been doing more and more- and turned to leave.

"I zhink ve both need sleep, Doktor."

"Oh . . . . Ja . . . ve do."

"Good night, мой друг".

"Ja. . . .Ja, gute Nacht, my friend."

Heavy stopped at the door.

"Do not forget; big battle tomorrow. I vake you up again?"

"You just vant the chance to beat me with pillows again, don't you?"

A grin upon both faces.

"Da, Doktor."


	4. Another day, another head in the fridge

"Me-"

"I'm coming!"

The Russian had burst through the door to his friend, war not thirty minutes from starting, and upon not seeing the doctor at the breakfast table - (Spy's turn to cook; nothing like French toast before war) - Heavy knew the man had overslept, and raced after finishing his food to the man, only to find the German with his back to him, fully aware of the situation, and hastily getting dressed.

Dark hair tussled from sleep; the physician was tying his belt around his tan pants, shirtless from sleeping, boots on, glasses on his desk.

"Dok-"

"Almost there, go vithout me!"

The weapons expert watched as a smooth and slightly scarred back disappointingly disappeared beneath a silky white shirt, and as soon as the cloth slipped over his shoulders, the owner of the pale flesh began darting around his infirmary, gathering his needed things, the shirt open and revealing the stomach and flat chest beneath, also slightly marred by senile battle wounds.

Grabbing his glasses and pressing them into place, Medic waved a hand to the other, signaling that it was okay for the large Russian to enter, before hurriedly buttoning the shirt, the mans pale front now as visible as his back. Heavy leant against the gurney, crossing his thick arms, realizing that the Medics newest pet and his eldest sat silent upon his desk, Winzig half asleep, Archimedes preening himself.

The doctor scurried around the larger man, tying his red tie hurriedly, grabbing a bonesaw he had become accustomed to from the other side of the room, before returning, grabbing his coat and preparing his portable Medi-gun.

"You missed breakfast."

"Doesn't matter."

"You won't be hungry?"

"Doesn't matter if I vill be, mein focus vill be on zhe battle."

"You're tired."

A low sigh came from the younger of the two.

"Ja, I know."

"You need sleep."

"Ja, I know.

The doctor all but threw the pack onto his back, ready.

"Let's go. We have a briefcase to get and BLUs to kill."

* * *

"_**Two minutes until battle**_." The Announcer crowed, the only female voice in what seemed to feel the world ringing across the area.

Medic heaved a great sigh, shoulder sagging under the weight of his thick coat and Medi-pack. Was it always this heavy? Glancing around, protected by the thin wire mesh gate between the REDs and the desert landscape, Medic looked to his comrades.

Most were cleaning their guns, giving last-minute adjustments and slackening collars, adjusting goggles, shifting gasmasks.

Scout seemed content on doing leg stretches, loosening his muscles and preparing himself for the massive run he would surely partake in, giving a tense nod to the doctor – returned of course – after meeting his sea-blue eyes and realizing that the elder was scanning his teammates, his patients, friends, family.

Spy rotated a shoulder, the one damaged in the last battle. It had healed perfectly, but 'ghost pains' as Engie had called them seemed to occur after surviving large injuries and not respawning, small, phantom aches where wounds once were and shouldn't have been.

"_**Sixty seconds until battle**__**.**_"

Demoman gave a swing from his bottle, offering some to the nearest person, Sniper, who politely took the alcohol and took the tiniest of sips before handing it back.

Being drunk on the battlefield was of course the Scottish mans thing, and having blurred vision while focusing upon someone's forehead from half a mile away and battling nausea while making someone's grey matter implode didn't seem efficient or Sniper-like at all.

"_**Thirty seconds**__**.**_"

The Russian stood in front of the small German tensed, clenching his hands upon Sascha, leathery gloves sticking to his skin. His rotated his neck lightly, needing it to click as it was starting to feel awkward.

A light burst of red bathed him momentarily, the ache fading, and he gave a silent nod backwards to thanks the man who had seemingly unnecessarily healed him.

It surprised him when a warm gloved hand patted twice on his shoulder in return, an unaccustomed 'You're welcome' from the brunette the large man usually ended up protecting.

Or was that the other way around?

"_**T******__e_n seconds."

The last match, the tiny German had protected him from being blasted to pieces, pushing him to avoid an explosion.

"_**Nine**_."

That only ended up in the doctor being injured himself, unable to see or work properly.

"_**Eight**_."

But, he still did his job correct, and that's all that matters, right? The members of RED doing what they're supposed to?

"_**Seven.**_ _**"**_

But, didn't that mean Heavy was to blame for the mans injuries as much as the Soldier that fired the rocket?

"_**Six**_."

Was it pity that spurred the large Russian to share his bed with the bedless man?

Because he was hurt?

"**_Five_**."

"Heavy?" It was quiet, little more than a whisper.

"_**Four**_. "

"Da?"

"_**Three**_. "

"I've. . . I've got your back. . . Don't vurry, my friend."

"_**Two**_. "

Another nod as a response. The loud man was quiet, and a silence set in that lasted nothing at all.

"_**One**_. "

The gates opened and all hell rained supreme, the men charging out, splaying in different directions to their best posts and positions, the Russian missing out his usual, encouraging yell of 'Go, go, go!' and simply running out into the dusty dunes.

The familiar healing beam descended upon him as he ran, unneeded security that the German was behind him and overhealing him.

A disembodied voice came from next to them.

"Mes amis, I forgot to mention zhis morning, zheir Demoman is having un malfuctzion viz 'is gun, I found zhis yesterday vhile spying, he says 'e cannot fire as many sticky-bombs, maybe use zhis to your advantage?"

"Dankeschön, Herr Spy! Do you need healings?" Came from behind Heavy, the man busy mowing down the BLUs own Heavy, accompanied with their Engineer.

The brief thought that fluttered through his hairless head surprised him.

'_Why is their Heavy not with their Medic?__'_

Was it a natural thought, to see someone practically identical to himself without the doppelganger of the man he held dearest?

He saw him a little way away, the opposite Medic scurrying out to heal a wounded Soldier, the BLU American with broken, bleeding legs. However, as soon as the man could stand, he positioned his weapon, and blasted himself upwards, doing the exact same damage to himself again and leaving the also German Medic sprayed with shrapnel and dust, spluttering and falling back from the small explosion, choking and bleeding from his face, glasses lenses splintered and sharps in his cheeks.

Is that what his own Medic was put through by saving him from the rockets? Was it worse?

The BLU doctor stood, immediately healing himself with the blue Medi-Gun.

Ah, that is where they differed.

Whereas RED Medic would have left his wounds to tend to the obviously limping Scout a little way behind him, the BLU had selfishly healed his own face which could have healed by the end of the battle by itself and totally ignored the teenager, who was crying out for him.

Heavy held no regret as he mowed the look-alike of his closest friend down.

Footsteps appeared moving away from them as well as a slightly shimmering nothing, and their Spy had gone, headed towards to BLU Snipers nest, and Heavy was unsure if the Medic had healed him or not.

He had been distant all morning, and the feeling of being healed and overhealed had become so natural to him. Like breathing. And yet he couldn't tell when the warm ray wasn't there today, mind seeming to spin in waves and speed to conclusions and odd epiphanies, yet at the same time his thoughts were finless fish, spiraling, slow and dying pitifully.

It was going to be a long battle, and an even longer day.

A shove sent him forward.

The Russian jolted, and he felt an emptiness as the hot red beam was pulled away as a shocked scream came from behind him.

He felt something hot spurt onto his back as he turned, and as he did, he wished he didn't.

His little RED Medic lay crumpled in the dust, a wide gash in his jugular as he spasmed weakly, clutching his neck with failing hands, legs faintly kicking up sand.

BLU Spy smirked, crouching low over the German as he came into view, cloaking device deactivated.

"Told you I'd get you." He licked a drop of blood from his butterfly knife, giving a wink and then standing.

"What- SPY!"

"But of course."

Medic gave a faint glare, gasping and bleeding profusely.

"I _was_ going to get your head, but I figure it's more fun to let you suffer. Au revoir"

A dark smile, and the Frenchman was gone.

"Doktor-!"

The brunette waved weakly, signaling the larger man to leave him, managing a breathily rasped "go . . .!"

Heavy gave an unsure look for a moment, but turned, the bleeding man behind him as he fired up Sascha again, firing at the BLUs.

Medic pressed two fingers to the wound. He was losing a lot of blood, and quickly, but as he fell, the Medi-gun had slipped from his grip, and flecks of red and black were seeping into his vision, honeymooning with the taste of copper and iron in his mouth.

Damn it, he didn't want to die again. He had made sure to not die as the Respawn Machine and he were still not on good terms. . . . .

. . . .And yet, death was calling to him like a sweet, milky sleep.

And the Medic was a man who was always tired.

* * *

Respawn, as you can tell by its name, was not at all a natural process; literally bringing the dead back to life.

That was not why the Medic didn't like it, no, no; the machine was a medical breakthrough and saved not only him but his teammates a lot of work.

No, the reason he hated it was based upon two facts.

One, you became dependant on it, and if it ever broke down while in use, you wouldn't know about it. You would be dead.

Two, the sensation was worse then that of dying.

Dying was easy - a little pain, a tingle, a little cramp, and then falling to the surrender of cold darkness.

Respawn was hard - a thousand jolts of white-hot liquid lead being forced through your veins, then having frozen ice-water dumped upon you, leaving you feeling vulnerable and raw, alone and twitching in swirling grey.

You shake yourself awake, jolting, like awaking from those dreams where you are half-asleep and falling.

Medic shuddered and cried out, trembling and waking up with a breathless gasp.

Soft fur rubbed his cheek gently, and the German turned his head, adjusting his slipped glasses to find his rat curled up against his cool face.

". . . Zn . . . Ziggy . . . ?"

The short-haired doctor sat up cautiously, a gloved hand tracing his neck absentmindedly. He could feel where the blade had struck, and yet he felt no mark. Just his pulse.

The small rodent squeaked quietly, and the physician realized where he was. He scooped the creature up, and placed him gently upon the counter next to his gurney.

"Apologies, Mein Haustier, but you cannot go to battle vith me."

The German gave a low sigh and a final pet to the rat, which looked up at him through shiny eyes, gave a small squeak, and watched in silence as his new owner left the infirmary, determined.

* * *

He turned to where his friend lay briefly, still in the midst of battle, blood hunger raging as much as testosterone.

The Medic lay still, in a pool of crimson. His limbs were as crooked as his glasses, hair mussed as dirt smeared across his cheek. His expression, albeit tired, was neutral and vanilla.

He could have been asleep.

The body eroded into a pile of red dust and ash, signaling to the Russian that Respawn had found and cradled his friend back to life.

"Cry s'morreee!" Escaped his lips before he could keep it back, slicing the BLU Scout to ribbons with bullets, then turning to aim for their Pyro, who stood quite still, burning RED Spy to cinders as the Frenchman wailed upon the dust, trying to scramble away.

Heavy was robbed of the kill by a well aimed shot by Sniper.

Medic spurred himself through the mesh doors, the roar of battle close, bonesaw in his hands.

A rocket whistled and exploded close, missing the doctor, but the blast and shrapnel was enough to cause him to fall back, and form an aching graze upon his forehead.

"Doc! Yo, Doc!"

The Scout limped over to him, BLU briefcase in bandaged hands, panting.

"Scout?"

"Hey, hey old man. . . .Mind . . . mind givin' me a little pick-me-up so I can run this bad boy up to the base?"

Scout was quick and easy to heal, and the Medic was on his way again in no time at all, dashing through dust and sand.

With the RED Scout with the BLU Intel, at least the end of the battle should be quick.

Medic leapt over the slight heap of crimson slush that once was his mangled body and a pool of his own blood, to find his friends back to him, a little way in front of him, a shimmering shadow gradually creeping closer and closer behind the tall man, an invisible arm rising slowly. . .

BLU Spy.

For the second time that day, blood splattered across his back, the Russian turning his head quickly to see what and _who_ it was.

This time, he was glad he turned.

The Medic held his enemies head in a single gloved hand as the alarm to signal the end of the battle began blaring out across the field.

The blue suited body lay crumpled at his feet; staining the dust even more and leaking onto the Medics boots, bloodstained bonesaw in his other hand.

"Vell, it seems you missed me yet again, Herr Spy."

* * *

"Why can't you just kill me?"

"Because vendettas are beautiful, Herr BLU. Now do shut up."

The doctor closed the fridge door, leaving the newly beheaded BLU inside, connected to a fully charged, operational battery.

The Medic stretched, Winzig sat quite contently upon his shoulder, munching upon something in silence.

He had shed his coat after battle, as the others had all escaped to their rooms, to celebrate and recuperate by themselves – after seeing Medic and being healed of course - and now the doctor was left alone in his infirmary, besides the now semi-alive head, Winzig, and the doves that rested upon his shelves and mounted Medi-Gun. It was late in the evening, yet felt a lot later.

The physician ran a hand through his thick hair, hefting himself up to sit on the gurney he had become accustomed to sleeping on, before rotating his neck. He felt stiff and sore and dull, aching from fighting, shaky from respawning.

With his back to the door to the Respawn room, the brunette ran a hand over his lined face, pressing them to his eyes with a low groan. Winzig gave a squeak and climbed to the top of his owners head, curling up in hot hair.

Warm hands descended upon slim shoulders.

"You did very well today, Doktor."

"Ja. . . . ja. . ." He muttered, the gloved hands massaging gently, loosening a knot in his back the slim man didn't realise he had.

"You protected me again. Leetle Doktor is leetle hero."

"N . . . nein. . ."

"Da, you saved me from zhat tiny Spy man. Leetle coward does not attack people's fronts. Doktor was clever to get him."

"Mhnnm."

"Я желаю вам могли получить перерыв."

A low sigh. "I know, mein Heavy"

"You understand Russian?"

"I've been picking it up slowly, listening vhen you talk."

The kneading continued, glasses framed eyes becoming half-lidded as his overworked muscles relaxed, and Medic felt himself melt against the man behind him.

"You're tired."

". . . Ja . . . ja, I know. . . ."

"You need sleep."

". . . . ja."

A well muscled arm caught him around his waist, lifting him.

"Ah- Wha-? P-put me down!"

Heavy lifted the slim man over his shoulder, the rat darting for the top of the doctors' hair to the weapons experts other shoulder. Medic reached for a pillow as Heavy started to walk, carrying the man, but he missed, gloveless fingers skimming the soft pillow and leaving him without ammunition.

"No, Doktor."

"Put me down, you schweinehund!" The pale man kicked lightly, earning a low laugh as he caught the others chest.

With a whine, he stopped, allowing himself to be carried through corridors.

He was set down upon Heavy's bed with a light 'Ooft.', the Russian grinning at him and chuckling.

"Heavy. . . I . . . I can't take your bed again. It's not fair. . . "

"Doktor, I insist. You are important you team. You need rest, and you only sleep good here."

"Heavy-"

"Nyet. You sleep here. Is final."

The Russian held a hand flat to his shoulder, allowing the silent rodent to crawl into his palm, before placing Winzig upon the same shelf Sascha lay on.

" . . . At least I don't have to vurry about you sqvuishing him." The German chuckled lightly, giving into the idea of sleep.

Because the Medic was a man who was always tired.

* * *

Light snoring passed his ear, the larger of the duo obviously asleep, and Medic ran a hand over his own bare arm, his legs clad in pajama pants, glasses glinting upon the side table.

Restlessly, he rolled over, curling closer to the man whose bed he shared,

Although, he had misjudged the distance the man was behind him, and Medic had rolled over to find himself cuddled close to the weapons expert, face in the crook of his neck.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. This was too close, even if it felt kind of nice; he just wasn't used to this kind of contact.

Despite this, the sleeping Heavy wrapped an arm around the smaller mans slim waist, pulling him closer.

" . . . . Спокойной ночи . . . . Мой доктор."

" . . . . Ja. . . . Gute Nacht. . . . .Mein Heavy."


	5. A long day remaining unfinished

He took in a deep breath, curling the smaller man closer to his thick frame. Medic seemed so small in his sleep, curled up and breathing deeply against the taller mans chest. The young doctor had fallen asleep first, grey bags camping under his eyes, and Heavy gave a sigh through his nose.

The Russian began to notice that the German would often give a pained mewl, clenching the older mans shirt in his fists as his eyebrows furrowed while he slept.

Did the Medic get nightmares?

All the weapons expert could do was rub the slim back gently, pulling his friend closer. Did he have nightmares before, when they slept close? How had he not noticed?

Heavy himself got little sleep, not wanting to miss each expression on the Germans face, trying to figure when he was in the worst parts of his dream.

* * *

"Doktor. Doktor, vake up."

A soft voice made him stir, foggy eyes opening wearily to meet with the larger mans covered chest.

"Ve need to vake up. Battle today."

Heavy spoke quietly, as if he were in a cave of stalactites about to fall, and the doctors eyes flitted up to meet the bottom of his jaw, realizing the man was holding him close, his own arms wrapped around the others middle.

"I hope battle goes well. We make good team, we vill win."

The doctor was unsure whether Heavy knew or not he was awake, but let the man continue, staying still and trying to keep his breathing even.

"After battle, vill be like other days. We talk und clean veapons. Eat food, go back to sleep. Normal day."

"The way zhe human mind can adapt to such situations inspires me, kamerad. No day is normal for me."

The doctor stretched a little, his words sleepy and slightly muddled, before he sat up, the other shuffling back and rubbing his neck.

"Var is bad to get used to. Still, we must."

"Mhmn." Medic ran a hand through his own thick hair, yawning silently. "Ooft. I feel like I got no zleep, ahaha."

He chuckled, smiling a little at the other, eyes glassy and unfocused without his lenses.

"Mhm." The Russian gave a little smile back, knowing full well that the Medic hid a lot of things. "Probably just bad dream."

". . . Ja. No matter."

The German slid off the bed, wearing only his loose black sleeping pants, and he stretched himself fully, letting out a sigh as his pale back clicked.

"Battle today, ja? Ve must prepare."

The healer turned, grinning back to Heavy, who had sat up, before turning to the shelf, smiling gently and scooping Winzig into his hands.

"Ahhahah, such a long, cruel day ahead, and my rat zleeps as if he owns zhe vurld."

A soft smile from both mercenaries.

"Must be nice feeling, Doktor."

* * *

Yet again behind the thin mesh barrier, battle only a few minutes away.

The RED team stood quietly checking weapons, a few members talking politely.

"Scout, head east at first, then to your left. . ."

"Oi Pyro, I ever tells ye 'bout that time I. . . .

"Hey, Engie, you know that schematic you' been truckin' on . . ."

All mindless chatter, the Medic had drowned it out until a gloved hand tapped upon his shoulder, and the brunette turned to face the Frenchman.

"Mon Ami. . .? I. . . I do not feel so well."

"Vas ist zhe problem, Herr Spy?"

The flesh of the agents' face that could be seen was pale, tinted almost lime at his cheeks. "I am . . . unsettled. I feel like bad things are going to happen. I am unsure."

"Unsettled? Vhy? I mean, what do you feel vill happen?"

"I don't know I just. I have petite zting insides my stomach and un shiver upon my back. I know something wrong will occur zhis battle."

The doctor pulled a face. He had not heard of any illness nor a remedy, but paranoia before a battle was a familiar feeling to the pit of the doctors' stomach.

"Maybe after zhe battle you should get some zleep, mein friend."

"Nhnn. No, no, I do not like zhis at all. . . I feel as if mon counterpart may have somezhing to do vith zhis. He vill be up to somezhing."

"Zhen aim for him, mein friend, zhats all I can suggest."

An undecided noise came from the masked mans throat, and he turned away, giving his covered stomach an absent-minded rub.

Medic turned back to Heavy who was lightly spinning his miniguns barrel, shifting from foot to foot in a mixture of anticipation, eagerness, and insecurity.

"Heavy?"

"Hmn?" The large man turned, facing the younger. "Da, Doktor?"

"Good luck out zhere, I'm behind you."

"Da, good good. We make good team."

After what seemed forever, the gates opened, and the team raged out, most dashing towards their goal; the cart containing a bomb to be delivered.

The Sniper, Engineer and Spy ran off, the Australian and the Texan finding good spots to place themselves and their weapons to give their team a sporting chance, the masked smoker either trying to sneak around some BLUs to backstab them or finding someplace quiet to vomit.

Soldier marched in front of the cart as it trundled along, the explosive Scotsman to the right of the bomb, Heavy to the left. Pyro took up the rear, flamethrower ready incase of a certain cerulean Spy emerged, and Scout ran ahead, ready to run back to warn the others of any incoming enemies, as Medic managed to perch himself upon the bomb, crouching, bright healing beam upon his Russian.

Before they knew it, the Bostonian ran to them, clutching his face while his side bled heavily.

"They comin'!"

He caught up to the bomb, and Heavy gave a single nod backwards to the German, allowing the Medic to shift his godly ray to the injured teenager, sealing up his gushing slash across his eye and gaping wound in his abdomen.

The BLU Soldier appeared first, a rocket firing straight for the circle of mercenaries, their Demoman at his side, placing sticky-bombs upon the rickety track.

RED Pyro had immediately leapt in, using a sharp blast of hot gas to deflect the searing rocket, deflecting it upwards, while Heavys minigun, Demomans grenades, and their own Soldiers launcher fired up, a stream of bullets and other explosives raining down as the other army turned the corner to face the approaching others, all mown down.

"Zcout! Here!" The German extended a rubber-gloved hand to the teen, who took it and eager hefted himself upon the bomb, before the doctor hopped off, giving a light, airy chuckle.

"Delivery missions are not your specialty, Herr Scout. Rest for einen moment. Get going vhen the going gets tough, ja?"

"Yea', yeah. . . . You know it." He chuckled, smiling and panting as the man pushed his Medi-guns handle forward, drenching Heavy with the beam of crimson life.

The battle went fairly easy in the beginning, the BLU's flesh splitting like melted butter from the RED's fire, the cart easily trundling upon the rusted trail, then all fire stopped, the defending side seeming to evaporate.

"Heavy." Medic whispered as all fell silent, no BLU's appearing at all as the rail went straight.

"Da?" Came back quietly, the rest of the team craning their necks, expecting a surprise attack at any second.

"Fully charged, kamerad."

"Da. On my signal then, you vill know."

"Ja."

Their footsteps at the side of the creaking, heaving container became as delicate as snowflakes, each trying to be as quiet as possible, the Soldiers helmet pushed up, the Scout with his shotgun armed.

"Mnnfh. Mh-hnmphf hmfhm."

"Yeah, it is weird, bro. Usually I would have been shot at at least a couple times by now."

"Somezhings wrong. . . .Zhey're plotting somezhing, I know it."

"This is ridiculous. DISCRETION IS FOR _WOMEN _AND THE _FRENCH!_" The Soldier suddenly screamed, his teammates flinching, hand cupping his mouth to make him louder.

Nothing.

A pin could have dropped and would have felt like an earthquake.

It couldn't be that the Sniper, Spy and Engie had trapped the BLUs inside their own area or taken them all out- bullet shots and screaming would have at least echoed, and yet nothing was heard, despite Medics sharp ears picking up the faint beeping of the scanning RED sentry that was immobile and unused.

The cart came closer and closer, some members of RED lowering their weapons, stepping sleepily with the groaning bomb. Scout even began drawing absentmindedly upon the shell of the explosive, a doodle of an incredibly derpy looking Demoman passed out upon the crimson casing, next to a one-man game of hangman and a crooked smiley face.

Soon, through the dust, they saw the area the bomb would be delivered to, a platform in which it would fall through and then be prepared to detonate. Sniper and Engineer were upon separate perches, equipment set up and aimed upon the platform, expecting a surprise attack as much as the others.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Something.

Heavy saw it first, a ring of well placed, hidden stickybombs around the closest edge of the platform.

"INCOMING!" the RED rang out, before what seemed most of the BLUs came from nowhere, charging and covering their counterparts with ammunition, the scarlet-clad mercenaries stumbling backwards and returning their own fire, guns blazing, everything becoming a blur of excitement and adrenaline.

It became a deadlock for a while, not going forward, but not going back, the cart stuck as its defenders and transporters were locked in battle, while their enemies and doppelgangers prevented it going forward even as inch.

Bullets skimmed Heavys arm and stomach, Soldier and Demoman taking most of the damage.

"Doktor!"

"Ja!"

"Now! Charge me!"

"Jawohl!"

A bright surge of light exploded from the Medi-gun, immediately shielding both the doctor and the weapons expert, skin like metal, heat radiating from every inch of their flesh.

Rockets, grenades, bombs, bullets, shrapnel and pellets bounced off from both the physician and the Russian, Heavy giving a guttural roar and raining all hell upon the BLUs, scattering them and ripping them to shreds like tissue confetti.

As Heavy and Medic easily took care of the nemesis team, Soldier, Pyro and Demoman had moved to push the bomb, desperate for it to make its destination.

The navy clad opponents respawned quickly, returning back to the cart, desperate to block the shuddering cart, and yet failing due to the bald mans barrage of pure fire power.

Often the BLUs would seemingly drop dead of their own accord, but the gleaming giant and his small healer managed to see the shimmering redness behind them if they squinted, the BLUs own Spy unseen as of yet, but none of the REDs had hardly been scratched, Heavy unhurt as the super empowering beam wore off.

Finally, they had pushed enough.

An inch of the cart creaked onto the platform, and the translucent doors of the stage opened, the cart falling into the pit, Announcers voice creaking over the area on the REDs victory.

The crimson team erupted into cheers, weapons either being sheathed or placed on the ground, the Engineer and Sniper rushing over to celebrate with the rest of their family, the ruby Spy appearing behind the Australian and yanking him backwards into a noogie and earning a cry and a few curses despite excited laughter from the usually quiet man.

Scout and Pyro high-fived, chanting some inebriated sounding song with the Demoman, Heavy pulling the two hard-hatted members of the team into a hug as they shook hands.

Medic laughed at the scene; his family was happy, this is the way his life should be, his team fulfilled and pleased and content.

As Heavy turned, he pulled the German into a warm hug, spinning him a little and grinning wider at the melodic laughter passed his ear, and he placed the small man down, ruffling the feathery hair lightly, before turning to the Scout to give the teenager the promise of a tasty sandvich later for his bravery and hard work.

The brunette laughed, stumbling slightly as his feet found the ground, watching the celebrations and congratulations between his teammates, saddened as his large friend left him, but pleased that his family was as one, all together, all in high spirits.

The Medic grinned, content.

Then something solid hit his temple and he fell back, into darkness.

Not into the darkness of neither death nor Respawn, but the painful gloom of forced unconsciousness.

He didn't even hit the floor before being carried off, his team too absorbed in their rejoicing to realise they were missing the precious healer or to see the shadowy man who had clubbed him.

Someone wanted him dead.

But not quite yet.


	6. The opponant made clear and deadly

Hot red ooze was sliding down the side of his face, a thick, deep gash throbbing across his forehead. Everything ached, his nose weeping crimson, his arms bound above his head, his head pounding warningly as he opened his eyes, everything blurred and swimming, the room dark, dank and with clogged, stuffy air.

His glasses were not on his face, knocked somewhere across the room, his hair sodden and freezing cold, adding to his already pounding headache that spawned from his right temple.

He couldn't help but let a whimper out as he pried his lethargic orbs to slither open.

A slow, powerful boot made contact with his head, pushing him back so Medics skull was trapped beneath the mans foot and the icy wall of cold, solid stone.

"You awake, lazy little doctor."

He gave a grunt back, feeling sluggish and vulnerable as he found himself stripped of his long-coat, gloves, weapons, Medi-pack, glasses and boots, leaving him bare footed, bare handed, and completely at the mans mercy.

". . . Wer . . . Wer bist du?"

The Italian shoe pressed harder, earning a quiet yet unmissed whine.

"In _English_."

He choked a little, pain tingling every inch of his flesh, inside and out. ". . . . Who are you. . .?"

The boot left him, and his head fell, chin pressed to his chest, temples pulsing, and he heard a distinct click from across the room from where the man had moved to, and then a brief flicker of light, a cigarette being lit up.

"Your once prisoner, you _putain immonde _doctor."

French.

Of course, how could he of missed it?

"H. . . .H-how did. . . . You escape. . . .zhe fridge. . . "

"I do not fear pain, _pouffiasse_. A battery is uneasy to unhook vizh just my tongue, but I am experienced. . . .At least, enough to live a while longer."

The shoe returned, forcing his head up and against the painful wall, which scraped at the flesh at the back of his sensitive neck.

"Pathetic little doctor. So alone. So . . . . Pitiable."

"Iz zhis vhat. . . it's all about, . . . . Herr Spy? R-revenge? For . . . keeping your head?"

The boot gave an incredibly hard push before disappearing.

"Oui."

It returned in the form of a sharp kick to the side of Medics face, dislocating his jaw and making the man fall to his side. He spat out thick blood, arms stretched painfully above him before a gloved hand grabbed his front, forcing him upwards, the doctors pale eyes meeting the Frenchmans sneering face.

"It vas painful, stranded all alone in zhat- "The masked man spat to his side. "-Deesgusting prison! Zhat foul, 'orrible little cell! How dare you zhink you could 'ave such dominance over me, you bastard!" He pulled away, before delivering another sharp kick to the exact same spot, the German yet again falling to his side, curling in on himself a little.

The Frenchman let out a low chuckle.

"Such an 'orrible place it was. . . .Such torture, being away vrom my team, my home." He leant down once more, grabbing the man by his soft coffee –colored hair, pulling him upwards.

"I'm going to make you suffer ze same fate, _pouffiasse__."_

He leant away, disappearing from the dizzy prisoners' eyesight.

Medic spiraled again into bittersweet unconsciousness.

* * *

"Wake up."

An incredible kick broke a rib as it struck his stomach, the captive jolting awake with a sharp cry.

"I've let you have an hour of rest, me being such a nice man. Now I want to have some fun, _petite salope_."

The masked BLU laughed darkly, grinning as the wheezing healer tried to shift himself up. Then something altered in his expression. Cruelty became rage.

"Stupid."

A slap to the face.

"Little."

A boot to the throat.

"Medic!"

A punch to the head.

The Red whimpered, coughing, choking, eyes blackened and bruised, blood streaming, curled into a ball on the stony floor, arms still bound and cramped.

Though he could still see how his younger nemesis had a glint in his metallic colored eyes, something hidden. Something planned. Something about to surface.

"Or. . . . . Should I call you by your real name. . . . Kris?"

"Don't." He croaked up at him, eyes meeting fleetingly, pleading.

The navy suit clad man held up a brown folder, papers evident inside.

"I am nozzing if not a good Spy." He smirked, before prying out a paper. His cold eyes scanned it, before looking down upon the weak doctor, who was aching and shivering cruelly.

"Kristian Ehrlichmann." Came softly from his captor. "Survivor of zhe second vorld var. Original hometown, Dresden, Germany. Zhe town was bombed, was it not?"

The Medic only whimpered pitifully, curling up more so, almost attempting to bury his head into the stone to avoid the mans burningly cold gaze.

"Answer me." Came softly from the Frenchman, who was oddly patient for a murderous torturer.

A sob.

". . . .Ja . . . . . Yes. . . "

"Your family died."

" . . . Yes."

"You escaped."

" . . . . ." A faint nod, accompanied with a whimper.

That strong boot pressed down upon the Medics temple. "You let them die."

". . . .Nein."

This was the best part. Breaking him down mentally. Make him squirm. Make him writhe. Make him beg for death. Spy grinned.

"You did, _mon petit prisonnier_, you did. Zhey died while you wormed your way out, too busy saving yourself to even care about your family." The Frenchman gave a glance to the papers, reading the information on his captive. "Your mozzer. . . .And your brozzer . . . You father was already dead, no? Killed already?"

A noise came from the small mans throat, half way between a gurgle and a groan, and Spy lifted his foot from the physician.

" . . . .died. . . . It vas var. . . . I didn't. . . .didn't. . . ."

He was lightheaded; the room spinning as pain grasped his nerves and made him almost delirious, flitting to German by accident- ". . . Mein Vater. . . . Ich kann nicht . . ."

A strong punt to his chest, making him yell weakly, all softness and consideration leaving the BLU.

"Do not speak that language to me. I heard it enough from you while in your vile cage."

"I've served mein time. . . ." The doctor whimpered out. "I've suffered . . . all zhese years, for. . . .For a mistake I made . . . vhen I was a child. . ."

The shoe came to his neck, pushing down on his collarbone and throat.

"Zhat was for zhem. This is for me."

* * *

"You will be here for a while."

The Spy spoke absent-mindedly, waistcoat off, tie loosened, cigarette flickering between long, dexterous fingers.

They had been at it for hours, the RED doctor crumpled upon the floor, caked in blood, thin shirt ripped as he drifted between the worlds of living and unconsciousness. His arms were still bound in chains, eyes hazy, dull and unfocused, long, deep slits etched into his back and stomach, adding to the pale scars he had sported from many years ago.

"Still, Kris, I might as well make your time here worth it, yes?"

Spy stood, tilting his head and making his neck click.

Medic was covered in lacerations, bruises and scrapes, feeling exactly like what he was. Spys toy.

He screamed, something white-hot and burning cold plunging further and further down, hard against his shoulder blade, before the Spy retracted his knife, flicking it around his hands like his RED counterpart had done so many times before.

The suited man knelt down, knees next to the Germans face, tutting as blood pooled lightly next to his legs, the man spitting out the familiar substance again.

He took the bruised, battered face in one hand, squeezing cruelly and making the physician look at him through fogged orbs.

"You know. . . .If you die here, you are not coming back. Ze Respawn machine will not work; it only works in and around your own base, and in and around zhe battlefield. Zhis is my base. Zhis is neither of those places." The Frenchman smiled, warmly, as if chatting mildly about the weather.

". . . .Zhen. . . .how. . . .you. . . .zhe head. . . ." The brunette croaked, panting from exhaustion and pain.

"Ah, zhat is a good question, _ma chienne_. My body had already died, out on zhe battlefield, and so I was ready to Respawn, but as my brain was still working, I could not. No matter where my brain died, my body was already ready and 'raring to go', as they say."

He dropped the cool feeling face, the older males head falling to the floor, heavy and fatigued.

"It's funny. All zhose times I could have killed you out on zhe battlefield. All zhose times your fat friend did me in for you. And now, we're here." The Frenchman tilted his head, eyes fixed upon the weaker males saturated hair. ". . . .And you are all alone, tiny Medic. . . . Little Kristian."

"No." He croaked out, the Germans head tilted, the man still curled upon the floor, arms still above him, yet his eyes met the masked mans, and despite the fact that they were not behind their usual frames, when they met the BLUs sharp stare, they held a ferocity unseen by any man before. And the Spy was almost taken back. The Spy was almost afraid. ". . . No. . . . I am never alone. . . .My family is waiting for me. They are looking for me. . . .and they _will_ find me, Herr Spy."

"I highly doubt that, _guérisseur fou_."

A smirk played upon torn, broken lips, the damaged man that was beyond repair grinning darkly up at the Frenchman, unafraid.

" . . . . You just wait and see. . . . ._"_


	7. Friends made clear, enemies made dead

Cold footsteps made him flinch, or at least they would, if he wasn't almost passed out from pain and exhaustion.

" . . . Would you like to know what I find funny, Kristian?"

No answer, but the BLU Spy smirked, nudging the back of a deep-brown (almost black now, from being in the dark and damp) haired head, and earning the quietest of groans.

"I find it humorous that you are so fixated on your family coming back. On how zhey are coming to rescue you. They're not, you know."

The doctor, when he finally spoke, face pressed to the arctic stone of the floor, spoke wearily and slowly, as if sleep talking.

". . . .Zhey are . . . . . zhey are. . . . prrmms . . . ."

"What was zhat?"

The Spy pressed down roughly upon the Medics leg, his right, which the masked man had taken to earlier, intent on revealing how much flesh could be sheared from the Germans bone before the man screamed for Spy to stop.

A lot, apparently.

" . . . .promsd. . . .pro. . . .mized. . . "

"Ah."

The boot disappeared from the still bleeding limb, its owner moving across the room slowly, lighting a European cigarette as the Frenchman moved.

" . . . .Would you like to know how long you have been here, _petite esclave__? _How long your family has abandoned you for?"

No answer.

". . . three days." The cerulean suited man turned to the older male, who was quite still and breathing shallowly. "And what fun we've had here, _ou_i?" He grinned darkly, before taking a running kick straight to the small of the brunettes back, earning a short, choked cry.

". . . . Sie kommen . . . . Sie sind . . . ."

A gloved hand grabbed his injured face, forcing the almost delirious German to look into steel colored eyes.

"What have I told you about talking in zhat language?"

Turquoise eyes looked resignedly up at him ". . . . _Mistvieh_."

The cigarette was promptly extinguished upon the exposed, creamy throat of the chained up prisoner, earning a short flinch.

". . . m'stronger zhan . . . you zhink, . . . BLU. . . "

"Oh? Iz zhat a challenge?"

* * *

His shirt was untucked now, tie loosened, and he even considered stripping himself of his mask to feel more comfortable. Not that it would have mattered; the heavily wounded man was going to die soon anyway. Still, it would be a last resort - to lose the mask, that is.

Spy simply unbuttoned the shirt a little more, watching the still prisoner from across the room in silence, the bleeding man himself wearing nothing but his regulation RED uniform pants, the shirt ripped and torn and stained red and thrown in a corner. It only angered his nemesis, getting in the way of his cutting and bludgeoning.

". . . Are you awake?"

". . . Nein."

He let it slide, this time, the German, the Spy himself groggy and feeling slow. It _had_ been three days down here, almost four, hardly leaving the Medics side, too busy inflicting punishment upon punishment.

He had to respect his neighbor though; the Medic could certainly take a beating, seeming to not notice many of the inflicted whip-marks, cigarette burns, bruises, scars and other lesions.

" . . . . I hate you."

". . . .I know."

Spy had also run out of insults long ago as well, snide remarks about the mans team, appearance, status, past and profession seemed to roll off the Germans back without so much as a second glance anymore.

The Spy folded his arms, tilting his masked head against the cold stone wall. He was tired. Still, the show must go on, and he pushed himself off the wall, pulling out a new cigarette as he went.

It had probably been a few more hours, the only window in the stale cage letting in the dying light of the falling third day, and the Spy halted in his harsh, pain inflicting beating, his captive curled into a ball, arms still cramped and numb, hanging limply from the chains binding him.

"Almost nightfall, _mon ennemi_."

A low grunt in return, the bound RED shifting lightly, squirming beneath the BLU standing still over him.

The Spy glanced down, finding the Medics head upon its side, the man watching him out of the corner of his cool eyes, fixated, neutral.

". . . Not yet." The Frenchman reassured both himself and the silent man beneath him in a low, soft voice. " . . . . I will not end you yet, _captifs courageux_."

A low knocking noise made both men look up, the masked BLU turning to the door the Medic had not noticed. The BLU Sniper hesitantly stepped in, holding the door open for a second as if not knowing whether to proceed or turn around and bolt. The man was also as Australian as his RED counterpart, only looking a little older, and the BLU did not wear the hat and glasses his equal did.

". . . Erm. . .Mate, I think . . . I think ya need a rest. S'bin bout four days, Spy, ya need a break. I don't mind . . . . I don't mind watchin' 'im."

A long arm indicated to the aching doctor, its owner not making eye contact.

The Frenchman seemed to regard his teammate for a long moment. ". . . Oui, oui, I zhink you are correct. _Merci, mon ami_." He patted a vest clad shoulder as he passed, before closing the door, leaving the Australian and the German alone inside.

As soon as the suited man disappeared, the other BLU rushed down to the Germans side, muttering lowly.

"Oh my god, oh my god." He shuck the bare, bleeding shoulder, letting out a shaky breath as the doctors head tilted back to his enemy. "Medic! I . . . I apologize."

Medic then realized that the man did not, in fact, have an Australian accent.

The 'Sniper' pulled something the Medic did not see from his pocket, and dissolved into the RED Spy.

"Oh, Medic, Medic, I'm so, so sorry, I did not realize _mon frère_ would be so cruel!" The crimson clad man then turned slowly, and nodded into seemingly empty space, before the RED Pyro shimmered into view, apparently borrowing the Frenchman's invisibility device.

The Spy turned to his comrade, whispering lowly.

"We've come to rescue you, _mon ami_, have no fear."

The Medic risked the smallest of smiles up at his ally.

". . . d-danke . . . Dankeschön . . ."

The Spy leant up, swiftly undoing the freezingly cold chains, the doctors' feelingless arms flopping down to his sides with a light groan.

The scarlet suited man laced his arm around the Germans shoulders, trying to stand with the older mans weight, hoisting the semi-naked prisoner.

"C-Can you stand, Medic?"

A slight shake of the head, light-headedness impacting the doctor full force.

"N-nein. . . .My leg. . ."

"Oh, sweet _seigneur miséricordieux_! " The Spy slapped a hand to his mouth. "He did this to you? "

Another faint nod.

". . . Right . . . I'll just carry you. We'll go slow, Kris, don't you worry.

". . . W-was? How . . .?"

A brief grin. "I am nozzing if not a good spy, _coéquipier_."

They took the tiniest of steps, Medic attempting to help with the leg he could move, the other dragging behind him limply as Pyro gathered up the mans clothes and weapons in silence.

The pyromaniac handed the wounded doctor his glasses, the left lens cracked.

"Oh. . . I don't zhink. . . .Zhey'll do much good. . . ." The brunette briefly indicated to his two blackened, swollen eyes, and the gas-mask wearing RED tilted his head, before placing them safely in the collection of clothes and weapons.

"Maybe, Pyro, we leave his things here. I can come back and get them once we get out brave Medic home."

The other nodded, placing the bundle of items in the corner, where the pool of blood the German had been lying in wouldn't stain anything, and then he turned to the RED Spy, and took off his watch.

The Spy and Pyro traded the watch for the cloaking device.

"Okay, Pyro, you go and find my counterpart, take as much time as you need, we are going to get out, and we are going to take time, okay?"

"M'mhnm!" The gasmask wearing man nodded and gave a short thumbs up, before pressing inside the silver cigarette lightly, and transforming into the BLU Sniper.

Sniper gave a nod to them, a brief grin, and then strode out the door, intent on finding the man who had hurt his friend so badly.

"Okay, Kris." The Frenchman murmured lowly. "Lets get you home."

* * *

They had made it down a couple hallways, and thankfully they hadn't been seen, but even more thankfully was that the doctors formerly continuous bleeding had stopped, allowing the two REDs to move without leaving a crimson trail.

" . . . Howmn. . . ."

"Hmn?" The Spy looked to his companion, whose eyes were down and fatigued, the man seeming to drift in and out of consciousness, but determined to stay awake.

". . . How did. . . .yn know . . . . I vas here . . .?"

"Mhm. A gut feeling, mon ami. I knew I would need some help to get you out, too. I have seen the things my counterpart has done before; I knew I would not be able to get you out on my own. That's why I brought monsieur Pyro with me. Everyone, of course, wanted to assist, especially Heavy, but zhis was a Spys job."

"Mhm."

The Spy stilled the two of them for a moment, allowing the watch to recharge and the Medic to catch his breath and gain more feeling in his limbs.

" . . . Seems my counterpart is fond of whips." The spy commented, noticing the injured mans patchwork back.

"He prefers knifes. . . . not as good vith zhem, zhough." Medic muttered, leaning hard against the Frenchmans slimmer frame.

"What did he use on your leg? It's . . . awful, for lack of a better word, mon ami."

"Knife." The doctor grunted. He had lost a lot of blood, hadn't eaten, and hadn't slept. If they didn't hurry he was going to pass out, and it would be difficult to revive him.

Spy adjusted his arm beneath the older males and spurred him to start moving again, taking each movement one baby step at a time, and trying to keep the Medic talking.

"Can you see where we are going?" He whispered.

" . . . .N-nein. . . .ja . . . sort of. Everything's . . . . Blurred, und my eyes hurt more zhan zhey ever have before."

"Did anyone else hurt you, while you were in zhere?"

". . . No. . . . I don't zhink so. . . . . . How is everyone at home?"

The Frenchman almost grinned and the older mans gentle courage.

"They'll be better once zhey have zheir doctor again."

* * *

BLU Spy stretched out leisurely upon his double bed, stripped of his uniform, mask about to come off.

A knock upon his door, and he absent-mindedly gave whoever it was clearance to enter.

BLU Sniper stuck his head around the corner of the Frenchmans room, earning a predatorial grin from the Frenchman, who then stood, sauntering over to the disguised RED.

"Ah, mon amour, did you get someone else to watch my pet, so you could visit me?" the man purred, and Pyro gave a nod, trying his best to smile warmly.

Spy pulled 'Sniper' close to him, touching foreheads.

"Mhmm. Good. I've missed you, these last few days, _mon tireur_." The BLU grinned, wrapping his arms around his teammate's neck.

"Come, I'm sure the bed is waiting for us, non?"

Sniper looked uncomfortable, tracing a hand over his top lip, as if pushing something that wasn't there out of the way, and his voice came out strained, hoarse, as if he were troubled.

"Y-Yeh. . . .just gimme a moment to freshen up, yeah?"

The suave spy smiled, turning away. "But of course, _mon cher_."

The Sniper slipped into the conjoining bathroom, and closed the door.

BLU Spy had his naked back to the door, rummaging through a drawer when he heard the bathroom door open behind him.

"Ah, _mon cher_, are you ready for me?" He purred, knowing the other male was approaching him from behind, and he almost shivered in anticipation.

"More than ready, Spy."

The voice that came from behind him was slightly croaky, like a smokers, anticipating, and definitely not his Snipers.

"Wha-"

The Frenchman turned, to be face to close face with the RED Pyro, the vengeful fire starter maskless and armed with his most trusted flamethrower.

The tan-skinned RED grinned darkly, clicking the trigger of the weapon lightly, warning the Spy, as he stepped closer, and closer, pinning his enemy into the corner of the room.

"Py-Pyro, please, I didn't, don't, _oh mon dieu,_non, please, n-no!"

The weapon exploded into life, drowning the torturing killer in a sea of flames a singular unbroken scream erupting from the Spy, the assassins' last vocalization.

* * *

"J-just a little more, Medic." Spy panted, heaving the man further down the corridor, practically carrying him.

The Medic himself was almost out of it, the pale hallways blurring and spinning around him, his short breaths coming out his bloodied up nose in short snores.

As they rounded another corner, Medic felt the man still and a warm hand slap over his mouth and nose, stilling and silencing his breathing.

He managed to look up, opening a single aching eye to see the BLU Heavy wander past, his eyes roaming over the spot where they were both cloaked.

The two RED members utterly froze in silence.

The large Russian then shook his head, gave a quiet grunt, and carried on walking past them.

Spy let out a shaky sigh, removing his hand from the paling Germans face, before lacing it around his waist, adjusting him.

Slowly, they trudged their way past, corridor after corridor, hallway after hallway, door after door, the good doctor clinging onto life as much as physically possible as his comrade clung onto him in turn.

No doctor left behind.

* * *

'Sniper' exited the room, not locking the door behind him, stuffing a special item into a sly pocket, and intent on leaving the BLU base for good.

* * *

Six men stood outside their base, dawn cracking over the soon scorching sands of the barren desert land.

"Y'see 'em yet pal?" The Texan asked lowly, each members eyes glued on the horizon in the direction of the enemy base.

". . . . Nyet. . ." came quietly from the usually loud man.

A blot appeared in the distance, a shimmering image.

Two men struggled across sand and stone.

"There! There they are!" Scout bellowed, sat upon the Soldiers shoulders for height, and then all six of the men began a hard sprint to catch up with their injured doctor and his French savior.

"Doktor! Doktor!"

"Doc, man! Yo, Spy!"

"Medic!"

"Spy!"

"Be careful." The masked man huffed and panted as Heavy reached him first, shock and pain upon the Russians face. "His leg. . . .back . . . Medic is injured, please, _mon ami_, take him."

"Da, da, of course."

They maneuvered with difficulty as the rest of the REDs caught up, missing a certain fire starter, of course, and the Spy handed the practically unconscious survivor to his friend.

Heavy lifted the man and cradled him like a giant, German child, and Spy just about collapsed into the nearest person, Sniper, who caught him swiftly.

"'Ey, s'alright Frenchie. Ya did well."

"Nhnn."

Holding the injured man close, Heavy turned and started to walk towards the base, making sure his ruined leg was protected from the searing sands and smiling despite himself that his team were walking along side him, each watching over their bleeding, broken friend as he was carried back home.

Safe.

And with his family.


	8. Recovery and worry

His footsteps sunk low into the sand as he made his way across the desert, the moon now high and bathing his way in an ethereal glow.

He had taken off his disguise once he had gotten a safe distance away from the BLU base, now with his mask pushed up so he could see his way, his thick flame retarded suit trapping the heat of his body close as he trudged across the midnight dunes.

He had enjoyed his day, breaking into the enemy base, saving his friend and getting revenge upon his captor.

Because vendettas are beautiful.

* * *

They had all left by now, each member checking in upon the doctor at least twice, before attending to their other duties.

Heavy now sat at his side, always incredibly reluctant to leave, and so stayed, watching over the sleeping hero.

The doctor was laid upon the gurney he always operated on, usually slept on, and nearly daily healed his friends upon, his torso now bandaged completely, his leg resting upon a small stack of pillows and wrapped entirely in gauze, causing the Scout to joke a little on how the German was akin to an old Egyptian mummy, despite the majority of the team noticing the fearful wetness in his eyes at the thought of the doctor forever being hurt, or worse, not waking up.

Heavy dabbed a small cloth over the gash upon Medics forehead patiently, silently treating the physicians wounds. He was not an expert in matters of the body himself, but he had torn enough people apart to know at least the basics of the human inner workings.

The small ball of fur near the Germans face shifted as he slept with his master, the Medics other pet, Archimedes, lay also upon the bed, perched upon the metal outer railing of the cot.

As the soft, warm cloth rubbed soothingly across the damaged forehead, a fogged, glassy eye slid open.

". . . . . Hey."

"Hey." Heavy smiled, glad the doctor was awake, the other eye too blackened to open.

" . . . . Guten Morgen." Medic gave the tiniest of smiles, wincing and shaky.

"Доброе утро, Doktor."

The Medic let out a long, shuddering breath, smiling up at the Russian as he dabbed his face again.

"You are very varm, Doktor, you have fever."

A low groan from the injured survivor. "Und zwei broken ribs, left side, uhhhn. . . M-mild concussion. . . . " The weapons expert could see something move within the surgeons mouth, the man beginning to reel off a list of his injuries. ". . . .Missing a tooth. Mein leg-"

"Is _resting_ Doktor, as you should be. Stop thinking."

With a low grunt, the Medic silenced, closing his eyes at the feeling of the fresh cloth cooling him.

There was only a moments calm though, the doctor suddenly trying to sit up, eye wide.

"S-Spy! Pyro! W-What happened to them-"

"Doktor!" A strong hand pushed him down. "Rest! They are fine!"

"You're sure? You promise?"

"Yes, yes. . . " The large man eased, rubbing a shoulder gently. "You've been here a day or two, and Spy had been sleeping a lot since he got back. I think Pyro came home last night. "

"Gut, gut. . . ." he mumbled, allowing himself to lean back, a hand absent-mindedly moving to give Winzig a light stroke. Archimedes spotted the affection the mans other pet was receiving and gave his owner a light nip to the ear, earning a chuckle, and the hand to drift upwards, the bird hopping onto his finger.

Moving his arm so the bird was looking at his face, Medic eye became glassier; the doctor lost in a sea of thought, caught in the tide and pulled into the ocean.

". . . . . Do you know vhy I named you Archimedes?" his voice croaked a little as he spoke seemingly to both the bird and Heavy. " . . . . Vas mein brüders name." a short smile. " . . . Archimedes und Kristian. . . .Such a good little team ve vere..."

Heavy just listened, busy tending to the ill doctor and wondering who this 'Kristian' was.

The Russian watched in silence as the man lying down gave an odd sort of smile, unobvious nostalgia sweeping across his features like an ailing breeze.

Then the German flicked his finger, the dove fluttering away to the high rafters of the ceiling.

He laid back with a sigh, eyes downcast, foggy orbs swimming within cool waters.

After a long half-hour, of silence and half-hearted cleaning, the physician tilted his head to the side, looking at his work desk at the mess left for him, unable to sleep or think in silence anymore.

Multiple things were strewn across the neat mans desk in a pile, all from his comrades; a once warm glass of milk from Scout, a tattered old koala plushie from the Sniper, a torn map of the south of Germany courteously of Soldier, a schematic of an improved Medi-gun from the Engineer, half an empty bottle of Scrumpy from the then sober Demoman, and his glasses and a stack of bloodied, beaten clothes from the very tired Spy.

Medic smiled. His family had left him gifts, all pieces of themselves, important things to them. It made him proud to be one of their team.

Just to the side of the pile lay another object, unseen at first.

Stretching out an arm, the survivor took it, rubbing his fingers at the material, inspecting it.

A crumpled and completely burned mask, once a dark blue to rival the midnight hues of sky, now blackened and burnt and crisp and alone.

Holding it in both hands, the silence in the room became deafening.

At least until Heavy broke it.

"I thought Spies do not take mask off?"

". . . Zhey don't."

What the Medic didn't know at that point was that luckily; the RED Spy had used an electro-sapper upon the BLU Respawn machine, meaning that the BLU Frenchman would remain the way Pyro had left him.

Dead.

Still, he had been through worse guilt than that for a man who had tortured him, and he placed the mask upon the pile of heart-infecting rubble, thinking nothing more of it for now, before rolling onto his side, facing Heavy, Winzig awakening and scuttling onto the blanket, hoping not to be disturbed again.

Heavy's lips tugged into a small smile at the mans tired eye.

"Sleepy?"

"Never more awake in mein life." He mumbled, and the Russian gave his booming laugh as a token gesture.

" . . . You look tired."

A yawn. "I-I'm not."

A chuckle. "Stubborn."

"Mhn. Maybe so." The German curled up more so under his blanket, bringing them just over his chin, like a child, earning a sincere smile from the larger man.

"Seems long time since you vere in my bed." He chuckled, putting away the cloth and medical tools left out.

"Seems a-" another yawn "-a long time since I vas in any bed."

A warm hand patted his hair, ruffling it, comforting him.

"I am staying here, vatching you. Sleep all you need to." The man then leant down, and gave the younger males' forehead a very light, chaste kiss.

As Heavy pulled away, he spotted the half smile, half pout upon his friends features.

"M'not tired. M'healing. Zhere's a difference. . ."

Another low laugh, the hand returning and mussing up his chocolate shaded hair further before the weapons expert leant down, pressing their foreheads together.

"Sleep, leetle Doktor. You need it."

Medic looked up a little at him, pleadingly. "Vill you be here vhen I vake up?"

Soft lips pressed against his own, the movements gentle, reassuring, and returned.

"Of course. Теперь спать, мой партнер. Just sleep."

" . . .ja. . . .ja. . . ."

His bruised eyelid became solid lead, and closed, the silky blue disappearing and the German heaving a low, deep breath, succumbing to the dewy rest that had been beckoning to him like a lost lover.

* * *

Low voices rumbled, hushed and trying to be as quiet as possible, but they woke him up anyway, the voice of a Frenchman making the doctor jolt himself awake and shudder, his good eye roaming over the blurred figures swimming before him.

"Shhh, Doktor, I'm here."

The warm hand of his gargantuan friend placed itself upon his head, before the Russian turned back to the other man in the room.

"Ah, Medic, are you feeling well?"

He couldn't help it. He froze.

The RED Spy came into his line of sight, shuffling to the side, next to Heavy, eyebrows knitted. "_Mon ami_? Are you alright?"

Medic breathed out shakily and audibly, trembling as he realized he was in little to no danger.

"J-Ja. . . .ja, I'm fine. . . "

Pale light glided through the windows, and the doctor judged that it was early morning time.

Sighing, the Spy rotated a shoulder, eyes roaming over the pile of knick-knacks and bric-a-brac.

"I apologize for my lack of input." He seemed discouraged, but then chuckled. "I gave you things you already own."

"Mhn. Don't fret, kamerade. . .its fine, I'm glad you brought mein things backs."

He was given a thankful smile, before the crimson masked man picked up the other mask, the dark material covered in soot and smoldered holes.

"Ahh. . . . ._mon frère _is dead. . . . Zhey will be getting a new member soon, anozzer Spy, a new one. . ."

"M'sorry." Kristian droned, voice rough, face buried among battle-ready pillows. He was a little guilty at his inconsiderateness, a little frustrated he knew French better than he let others know and a little crestfallen at remembering his own brother.

"Bah, do not apologize." The Frenchman's eyes had not moved from the protective accessory. "You did nozhing wrong. . . . He. . . .He was a sick man."

Spy threw down the mask, his expression a cocktail of disgust and remorse.

" . . . . I'm glad you were not close to him."

They met eyes.

". . . As am I." They undercover agent spoke slowly, choosing his words with utmost care. "Still . . . . I am better of without him. We all are."

The doctor stretched out an injured hand, a gloved one taking it. A gesture of pure friendship was rare in barracks, but received and returned gladly to those deserving of it.

"Danke, Herr Spy."

"And _merci_ to you, _mon ami_. We all owe you." Dark eyes flickered to the pile of endowments again. "Although, I don't think we do you justice at all." Spy chuckled.

"Don't worry about it." Came quietly from the doctor, sleep tugging at his nerves again.

"Sleep, Doktor." Came from the Russian, who had been watching the connection of hands in silence. "Just sleep."

"Oui, _ami_, rest. We need to fit and healthy for zhe next battle."

Kristian heard soft, faint French laughter as the world dimmed around him.

* * *

Crying, bleeding, fire, raging voices, the shrieking of falling death, planes carrying average human souls blaring over.

Worming his way out a hole in the house, the flesh of his back and stomach was torn apart as the bomb hit, scrabbling his way to bitter freedom to the soundtrack of his childhood home encaged in flame and the echoing resonance of his brothers screaming as he ended, his mother probably already gone.

Maybe he could have saved them.

But it was all too late now, and they were dead.

Unlike he, who lived on, to suffer and be tortured for the next thirty years.

* * *

"He'll be alright. . . .I promise."

"I vas too late, Sniper, I took too long, he's hurting too badly, he's going."

"It's alright, I promise, I promise."

Repetitive voices, swimming within his skull.

"See? His breathin's even now. . . .Maybe it was just a nightmare or something; I don't think he's dying."

"I can't believe he did this."

"Hold on, who are we talking about now?"

A short silence, a ruffling of material.

"Oh."

"He's dead, you know. . . . Pyro and I killed him."

A low murmur in an Australian voice "Probably for the best."

He could feel eyes roaming over his body.

"He's definitely asleep, now, look. . . . He's peaceful, sleepin'. Both of 'em."

"Oui . . . . I just worry about him."

"Ya don't need ta be. Look, he's got that great lug with 'im."

Medic became aware of a warm weight next to him that had been there for a while.

"Zhey're both exhausted. Zhe doctor feel asleep midway through conversation."

A low chuckle.

"Yeah . . . . c'mon, Spy. You need as much rest as they do."

"Oui . . . . oui. . ."

A door closed a little way away, and Medic raised his head, awake yet groggy.

Cold.

"Doktor."

Rolling over, he found Heavy laid next to him, but it was too dark to tell that his eyes were closed, the colossal man apparently asleep. Medic didn't see his lips move; it was as if the gentle voice came from thin, chilly air.

Then a warm arm caught his waist and pulled him to cuddle a large, unyielding body, soft lips pressing to the top of his head.

"Спи, маленький доктор, просто спать. Ты в безопасности."

"Thank you."


	9. Back to battle with an injured doctor

"I do not want to leave."

"I know ya don't, dude, but ya gotta."

"Doktor-"

"-Is asleep, Hev. Let 'im get some rest."

Somewhere, mixed and jumbled in-between the realms of severe drug-induced sleep and achingly awake consciousness, Medic heard voices buzzing in his ear drums.

"Dude. . . .Spy says ya gotta let 'im sleep on his own. I'm gonna watch over him for ya." The chirpy teenage voice sounded almost happy.

"I do not like tiny Scout vatching over Doktor."

"Dude-!"

"Doktor is ill. Vhat if something happens to him? Vhat vill you do?"

A quiet sigh of desperation.

"Heavy . . . . Just get some sleep, okay? Spy wants you to rest as much as Doc."

The last part of the almost silent argument faded from the doctor's memory, the relentless tendrils of slumber clawing at him yet again, the Scout and the Heavy's voice swimming in his ears.

It saddened him that the warm weight of his friend no longer resided next to him, the most comforting thing he had possibly ever felt leaving him without warning.

But maybe he was being childish.

* * *

Burning.

Raging.

Screaming.

His legs kicked out for freedom, hands pulling him back into the flames.

A harsh, masculine voice boomed in his ears, as his brothers crying became a weak echo in the corner of his severe mind.

Why was it him?

"Es tut mir leid, . . . . . weil es meine Schuld ist. . . . . Bruder."

* * *

Again, it was voices that woke him up.

"I dunno, man, it was just like 'e started convulsin' or somethin', cryin' and whimperin' in his sleep."

A French accented voice joined that of the Bostonian Scouts. It was soft, low, and careful. Distracted.

". . . . . Anozher nightmare, hm, ami?"

A slim, warm hand was then on the side of his head, rubbing tenderly.

He willed his voice to work, yet it still came out croaked. "J-Ja. . . .Anozher nightmare."

"Jeez, man, how long ya been awake?"

He couldn't answer. He truly couldn't. After so many years of fitful sleep, the meaning of the word was lost to him. He became aware of tear tracks upon his injured cheeks.

"I don't know . . . . . vhat time is it? Vhat day?"

He willed his eyes open, or, at least one, the other solid and raw and inert, too bruised and painful to even think about.

His sea-blue eye were met with the sight of Spy, looking ruffled and tired, jacket-less and most likely sleep-less, and Scout, who besides looking the slightest bit worried was as fine as ever.

"A week since you have arrived, ami. You've slept a lot." The Frenchman smiled down fondly at him, his thumb tracing the bruising across his bad eye.

A frown appeared upon the doctors features. "A veek. . . . .How many battles have I missed? S'everyvone alright?"

"Y'ain't missed nuthin', Doc." The Scout leapt onto the bed, landing on his ass, sitting and earning a glare from the suited Frenchman, who then turned to the physician, pulling up a seat.

"No, zhere have been no battles. Zhey have no Spy, you see, and for now, we have no Medic." A soft laugh came from the man, the thumb brushing the soft brown hair, the hand never leaving. "And we have all been fine, besides the fact zhat we have been made to eat monsieur Soldiers less than adequate cooking."

Another soft, melodic laugh.

It was oddly soothing, despite the sounds intense similarity to the REDs sadistic and now dead twins own chuckling sneer.

The chuckles softened more so, and the doctor was left with the Scout practically sat on him and the Spy just . . . . . looking at him.

" . . . . . Heavy was so worried about you, ami." It was less than a whisper and had the feeling of an after-thought, something regretted.

"Herr Heavy?"

He couldn't help but turn his head to where his friend had lay what seemed to be the night before.

"I told him to get some rest. You had both slept for a while, but he needed proper rest. "

" . . . .He promised. He said he vould be here vhen I voke up." A frown appeared upon ashen cheeks, before they flushed pink, the doctor remembering what he and the Russian had done after securing the promise.

"Well, I zhought zhat once you feel well enough, we will get you to operate zhe Medi-gun, since none of us know how to do it." A grin upon the Frenchman's features. "Zhen everyzhing will be shipshape; we will have our good doctor back on his feet and time to relax and recuperate while zhe BLUs find a new Spy."

"How ya feelin' now, Doc?"

Shakily, the eldest of the trio managed to sit up, groaning a little at the feeling of his broken rib shards grinding against themselves.

". . . . . A little better." Tentatively, he rotated his bloodied leg, pain jolting up his spine and he gritted his teeth in an effort to not shout out.

He was stronger than that.

"Do you want to rest some more, or do you want to try and use zhe gun?"

"Nein." He shook his head, trying to pull himself up more. "My family needs zheir doctor." He gave a tight grin, and Spy laced his arms around his shoulder, lifting him as he had days before, back in the death-ridden BLU base.

Brothers-in-arms.

Always.

Gently and with the utmost care, the physician operated his most trusted device, the Spy clinging to him and holding him close as red rays of devout, gaseous life bathed his fragile body, aimed at his tattered leg.

* * *

They were all sat in the living room, each member doing their own thing as Heavy entered, and as he looked up to see Spy and Scout laid lazily upon his and the Medics usual sofa, he gaped at them both.

"Where is Doktor? Why are you not watching him?"

The Frenchman looked up at him, a cigarette resting between nimble fingers. "Détendre, mon pote, 'e is resting."

The Russian visibly twitched at the idea of his dearest friend hurting and alone in that empty surgery.

"Yeah, he's asleep, Hev, let the Doc get some shuteye."

"Nyet!" He bellowed, cheeks flooding with colour. "Doktor is ill! He need us to help!"

A soft voice came quietly from the doorway.

"Mir geht es gut, mein Begleiter."

The scrape was still evident across his forehead; his leg still had bandages wrapped around it tightly, and what little of his torso that could be seen beneath his shirt was also wrapped. Rings under his pale blue eyes were evident, the man more tired than he looked, Winzig resting inside his shirt pocket, quite content. He leant against the doorway, without his glasses, and he looked drained besides his youthful smile.

He had found a cane and was resting upon it heavily and he padded over tentatively to the middle of the room, limp noticeable, but diminutive.

Obviously he had not healed himself fully, wanting just enough strength to get around. He hated using the Medi-gun on himself unless it was needed or experimental, and right now he was either stubborn or eager to see his family. Or both.

Heavy's eyes lit up and met him in the centre of the room. He brought his hands up, as if to cling to the smaller man and never let go, but he wavered. Medic's ribs were not one hundred percent fixed yet, and he didn't want to cause him any pain at all. He settled for placing them on his slim shoulders, leaning his forehead down to rest on the top of his head.

The doctors' eyes flicked up at him, one still lightly bruised and swollen, and he smiled, speech as soft as his ill-treated tissue.

"Hallo, Russisch."

"Привет, немецкий."

All gazes that were on them turned away, smiling and retuning back to their hobbies and interactions, turning a blind eye.

They were just glad to have him back.

"Doktor. . . . ."

"Danke. . . . . für die Betreuung von mir, dumm." His smile was sincere, and the chuckle accompanying it melodic and good-natured.

"Doktor," Heavy pulled away an inch or two, keeping the warm shoulders in his palms as he gave a tiny smile, which had sadness behind it.

"I do not understand your vurds."

The doctor merely smiled. "You do not need to."

* * *

There was a soft nuzzle to the taller mans strong jaw, and the family was whole and united again.

Four days.

That's all it took.

They all thought it would be the Spy to deliver the news of a new member to their enemy's band of almost duplicates, the Frenchman possibly sneaking to the BLU base again to see his counterpart arrive, and yet it was the Soldier who came in with the news that mild October evening.

The Engineer had taken a good hour out of his practically overflowing schedule to fix the TV, the Pyro, Scout and Demomans insistent whining wearing down his once seemingly endless patience, and so the living room was inundated with the dwindling tones of some pitiful excuse of a small screen broadcast, the Pyro having flicked through and found nothing better than static and a rancid, cliché riddled soap opera.

Still, the Russian found it more entertaining than the silence of his room and the quiet of the still dust outside, especially as his doctor was curled upon his lap as they sat on one end of the sofa, the Pyro politely requesting that he sit the other end so that he may see his television.

He had a faint idea of where the others were, Demoman cradling a throbbing head yet playing poker with the Spy and Sniper, Engineer making up for lost time, Scout most likely training and he thought the Soldier to be doing the same, until the man trailed into the living room, and uttered not a word, an incredibly un-Soldier-like, and more frightening than the usual greeting from the irrational man.

" . . . .They got a Spy."

Four words.

That's all it took for the TV to be turned off and for the other three men of the room to turn and look at the grenade carrying American.

Those four words made the jumbled drivel in the healing doctors mind fade.

The only other time he had seen a new member come into either of the teams was when the Scout had first arrived, a year or two after his own arrival, and even then the BLUs received one as well. There were slight differences in each of the teams, slight variations in appearances, higher or lower tones of voice, alternate battle tactics; this only befuddled the scientist more over.

How were two teams, even two _people _so identical, even in nationality? Luck? Surely there was a horrific shortage of Texan builders with weak eyes and twelve PhDs, lanky Australian gunmen with a habit of urinating on their targets and ebony-skinned demolition experts with a Scottish heritage.

That only led him to think that part of the Respawn device acted as some kind of cloning machine.

But who was the original? Maybe they had died and come back so many times that they were just faded photos of the original people?

Was he even real? Were his memories real? Was _any_of it _ever_ real?

He had not had these thoughts for a long, long time.

And yet once again it was his best friend's voice that broke his cluttered ponderings.

"How does leetle Soldier know of dis?"

"Announcer informed me." He nodded. And that was all that was needed.

The tall man then turned on his heel and marched straight out again, no doubt to find another member of the team to inform.

The blur of the television returned to hum in his ears, as the sensation of the Russians nose nuzzling the side of his neck snapped him out of his fascination with the spot where Soldier was stood moments before.

The once BLU hostage then decided it was better to become obsessed with the dull goings-on of fictional soap characters and the soothingly low noise of Heavys breathing than the fact his life was never really his own.

That his existence was possibly both futile and stillborn. That tomorrow, a new man would want this 'life' to end yet again.

* * *

After a night of more convalescing and a morning of forced Medigun healing, nine men stood behind a wire mesh, ready to charge and meet the day's hardships.

Stood behind the giant of a man, red beam fixed upon him and over-healing the Russian, the doctor steadied himself. He had healed himself fully; Heavy convincing him yet again to think of the team without their physician, and making the man bathe in crimson light, repairing his leg, ribs and other semi-clotted wounds.

As the Russian turned and gave a warm smile down to the shorter German, and received a slight blush and a pat on the back, they knew it was almost time to prepare seeing each other being blown apart in a blazing inferno of gunfire and then spring back up a minute or so later.

After everything that happened between them, that fact would always remain certain. No matter what happened off the field. No matter what happened on the field. They always ran straight into hell _together_.

There was just the right amount of awkward between the two.

The Announcers rasped howl screeched across the desert and eighteen men ran out to fight over a glowing metal disk in the ground.

They had worked out a system that if, while stood on the point, the Russian and the German stood back to back they could easily see and outmaneuver any incoming attack, continue healing and shooting, and defend each other from a certain new coming backstabber.

Although, a scattergun blast taken fully in the stomach by an incredibly lucky Scout did not seem worth the hassle of avoiding the new enemy, especially as the Medic had to keep the Heavy stood on the point as the larger man slumped over in open-chested pain. Healing and fighting was as hard as ever, and ghost pains ravaging his body had him weak at the knees, but the life of his friend and the outcome of the match all teetered on the physician's ability to keep the man alive and fighting.

Besides the slight set backs of the odd hits, rare compressed air blasts and nearby explosions, neither died that day, and despite the many close calls, they won the days battle for the team, back to back on the now crimson shining point, both slightly out of breath, both with congealing cuts and scrapes.

The younger doctor was exhausted, legs trembling, and practically collapsed, the weapons expert spinning just in time to catch him.

"Easy, Doktor. Has been long fighting day. No need for rushing."

The coat clad man gave a weak and short smile, his weight pressed against his friend's thick forearm. When feeling returned into his lower limbs somewhat, he took a slight step, and the giant held him close as they walked back together, weapons tucked under their arms, not seeing neither hide nor hair of the new BLU Spy throughout the day.

Until a stream of blue smoke blocked their path, and a slender male in a suit dissolved into the air.

"Bonjour, amis." He sneered before the steam had a chance to clear, grinning manically.

He was identical to the last BLU Spy, right down to his voice. The same way he stood, the same mocking sneer, the same suit, the same smell of his cigarettes, the same eyes that were the same colour of the steel of a gun, the same shape of the same sharp face beneath the same mask, everything, and Kristian froze in place, wide eyed, fingers digging into the Russians solid arm. How was that. . . .Possible? It was the same torturer stood before him, a lit cigarette dangling between his thin lips.

Like he never died.

Everything about the man resembled a crane fly, a daddy-long-legs spider - long, spindly and gangly, so slim and sickly he looked like a ghostly wraith, all the scarcely toned muscle and fat seeming to orbit his triceps and gastrocnemius – used for stabbing, and running away.

This, compared to any other in both RED and BLU, was pitiful, even comparing to someone like the Scout, or even the Medic himself; the Scouts muscles powerful enough to hold his light weight with ease and run much faster than an average human could, and the Medics muscle in his stomach arms and legs was envy worthy beneath his coat, powerful and compact, for all the running into warfare and carrying of the heavy Medipack and gun he did. Even the weakest seeming men outweighed the slender agent by far.

The Spy looked ill, too ill for a fighting army man.

But he was still dangerous, as is any man with intent to kill and a sharpened knife.

"Well well well. . . . . It seems zhe two of you slipped my grasp today, hmn?" The man behind the navy fabric smiled, as if they were old friends. "Mmn. Still, work to do. Even off zhe clock." The knife was flicked open, and the doctor could feel the large man behind him tense.

What to do, what to do? What was a lower blow to his already salted pride, honorably dying at the hands of a dishonorable man, or running away, if he could? Its not like he could fight, he could barely stand, and running away at all would only prevent the seemingly inevitable, and it would mean leaving Heavy behind. Unacceptable. Kristian Ehrlichmann was no coward, no matter what anyone on either team said.

A slight growl came from above him, followed by a low voice.

"Leetle Spy should get out of here, vhile he can still use legs."

The Frenchman only snorted and adjusted his tie pompously, self-consciously, still watching the Medics eyes.

"I vas told zhat you, monsieur, vas quite zhe threat?" He scoffed "And yet you are clinging to zhis oaf like a newborn baby" A short chortle and a snort from the BLU, a lower growl from the tallest RED.

"You leave Doktor alone now, Spy. No more fighting for today, we go back to base." The giant spoke softly, as if scolding a child, but the Spy only grinned, the suave, greasy Frenchman taking a step to pass them, moving to walk by.

"I assure you zhen, zhe next battle will be, as you say, _excruciating_, monsieur." A snort and a laugh, and the blue clad man evaporated into thin air.

Even with the large arm around his chest, the brunettes legs still buckled, and he collapsed to his knees, shivering violently.

"Woah, easy Doktor." The colossal man knelt down, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. "It is over now. Tiny silly Spy is gone."

The soft voice did nothing to ease his shivering and his diminutive flashbacks of being trapped in that cell, practically drowning in his own blood, everything fading to red in a base full of BLU, unable to feel anything below his knees.

Even with his impressive poker face, memories hurt more than words.

". . . vhy is it alvays me, Heavy?"

* * *

'_I have to die at some point__,_' he pondered, stood in his comrades' shower. It was late, almost midnight, and the Medic had been shanghaied into sharing his friend's bed yet again. '_I can't keep living with ghost pains; I can't function in battle still injured_.'

He turned around, leaning his back against the shower wall, water spraying down to his sore neck. '_But if I do die, I don't want Respawn to glitch on me again_.' He reached for some shampoo – wondering slightly why Heavy of all people would have it – and began to wash his hair, thoughts spiraling in his head like a liquid locomotive.

'_And I definitely do not want to die at the hands of that . . . . . that Spy__.' _If the doctor was a rude enough man to spit, he would, but he could not, even with water disappearing down the drain. _ '__But I can't just let my team down either. I can't die on purpose__.'_

He sighed, rinsing the suds from his chocolate tresses. '_I suppose I have to stop being lucky at some point or another__.'_ Replacing the bottle, the physician sighed, leaning against the wall, and he leant slightly to rub his bad leg, which twitched under his slick palm. It's as if he could still see its inner workings from that ominous Spy's horrific work, still feel the bone popped from its place and the muscle torn from its tendons.

He dismissed the thoughts of cloning and new life from his head. It was much too late at night for that and after a battle and having to heal everyone, he was too exhausted to even toy with his many ideas and theories anymore. The water turned off with a groan and the doctor was left cold, wet and covered in goosebumps, stumbling from the shower sleepily and tugging on his sleeping pants. He dried his hair sparingly and weakly, limbs aching in a mixture of ghost pains and good old fashioned fatigue.

Sluggishly, he opened the door connecting the simple wooden bathroom to his friend's bed room, to find the giant in his bed, laid on his broad back.

He had a pair of glasses resting on his obviously once broken nose, a large Russian book with small Russian writing in his strong hands.

Whoever said that the Heavy wasn't intelligent was likely less so than the man himself. He had almost mastered another language and knew more about guns than the doctor did about the body. Perhaps if they were born in another life, the two of them could easily swap classes. It almost made the brunette chuckle, imagining the man whose bed he was sharing cradling his doves and trying to use the tiny, fiddly medical instruments.

Silently, the doctor crawled in next to him, curling up next to his warm, thick frame, Winzig snoozing on the shelf above them, Sascha laid beside the bed, both noiseless and inert.

The large man gave a slight smirk, moving an arm to wrap around his slim shoulders.

"Feeling better, da?"

"Ja." He murmured, cuddling as close as possible, the dense fog of sleep descending.

" . . . . Good."

Quietly, the book was bookmarked and abandoned, the glasses were removed, and the light was shut off, before the Russian rolled onto his side, facing his German, pulling him flush against his body.

" . . . . I von't let him near you. You know this, da?" He muttered as he held his doctors face gently, making the fogged, marble like eyes look up at him.

"Yes, Heavy. I know. You alvays protect me." He smiled a little, shuffling closer to rest his chin on his friends shoulder.

"Stupid Spy vill not come near my Doktor again." The larger man gently nuzzled his friend's neck, unsure whether to risk living the smaller man a light kiss. He wanted to. Oh _god_ he wanted to. The way the kind man was so sweetly curled up to him, like he was his only lifeline, silent eyes doubtful and innocent, the way his lips were gently curved to a timid smile.

It was the same look he had before Heavy kissed him the first time, and even that took all his bravery.

Running into battle head first was easy.

Kissing his best friend, difficult.

Telling his best friend he loved him, absolutely impossible.

But then the lean but incredibly well toned surgeon leant up and pecked the corner of his mouth, before nuzzling his head against the broad shoulder he was leaning on before.

" . . . . Gute Nacht."

" . . . .Da. emспокойной ночи."

He would deal with the pesky Spy tomorrow; he was much too busy watching the smaller man drift to sleep.

Hell, maybe tomorrow he could get away with telling him the truth.

If not, maybe his real name would do, the doctor deserved that much.

'_Whatever happens__,'_ the Russian swore, vowing in his own mind, '_I will be there to help my Medic__._'

Tomorrow. . . .The little Spy would pay, whether he was a clone, the same man, whatever, it did not matter. He hurt and scared his Medic, and no one got away with that.

He who laughs last usually laughs alone. That's the moral of a well done good vs. evil story, isn't it? Well somewhere, the BLU Spy lay snickering.

That laughter will promptly be ceased by an incredibly angered Russian.


	10. The Beginning

Mumbling.

And if it wasn't mumbling, it would be low whispering or weak and pained mewls, all the while he was shivering gently.

They had shifted somewhat in their sleep, and now the weapons expert lay on his back, deadly awake, his doctor draped across his chest in his sporadic slumber.

For a man so usually quiet and even cold, as he drifted through the dominion of unconsciousness, the slim surgeon was almost vocal, obviously something playing on his mind enough for it to toy with his erratic dreams.

The Heavy didn't have the willpower to stop his hand moving from tracing a line down his friends back, following the curve of his bare spine, feeling every slight ridge of the bones. Vertebrae. He remembered that name from the very man laid across him himself. He remembered watching him align the Soldiers back one too many times after being blasted to pieces by his own weapon.

He remembered watching him yanking out a bullet from the Demoman's spine after a lazy shot by the BLU Sniper.

He remembered watching him having to begrudgingly massage a healing yet heavily wounded Scout until he was able to crack a broken and dislocated shoulder back into place before fixing part of the Bostonian's back.

He remembered a lot.

A lot more than he should, he spent far too much time watching the man work.

As he traced the hard column under the Medics flesh again, catching the odd scar or two, he couldn't help but feel guilty. He distracted the man at work more often than he truly should. But if the doctor had a problem with it, he would have said something, right?

A soft groan brought the giant out of his thoughts and he looked down at the physician, who shifted slightly, eyebrows almost furrowed.

What the Russian remembered most of all were the looks of hurt and pain and suffering that were becoming more and more frequent on the younger man's pale features. Torment coming through his dreams, distant thoughts plaguing him more than useful ones.

And there was one man at the source of it all.

That чертовский BLU Spy.

_He_ wasn't the one dealing with the doctor's nightmares, _he_ wasn't the one reassuring that the brunette will be safe at night, _he_ wasn't the one who was starting to make sense of midnight rumblings and muttered pained drones while the other slept.

But the Russian knew exactly what was on the smaller physician's mind tonight.

The fact that the BLU had returned, back from the dead.

And so, he decided to turn to the one person who could make sense of it.

Tenderly and hesitantly, he lifted his dozed doctor from him as he slipped from the bed, and lifted Sascha up from her resting place. Gently, he put her on the bed, lowering Medic onto her, and hoped that he would not notice the sudden shift from flushed, heated, deeply breathing skin, to cold, hard, unfeeling steel.

When the brunette remained asleep, the weapons expert smiled and pulled on his old dressing gown, and started to walk, closing the door behind him to allow his friend to sleep in darkness.

Now on his way to his destination within the base, he let his mind wander more, mainly on plans to tell his Doktor his real name, or even at a stretch that he loved him.

Its not like he could just walk up to him one day after battle and say 'Doktor, my name is Viktor and I love you', or blurt it out in the middle of a medical examination when the doctor himself was so focused and probably wouldn't even hear him.

. . . . That actually wasn't a bad idea, but the Russian shook his head.

Maybe the smaller man already knew? He was never good at being unobvious, but he knew flaunting his feelings clearly would perhaps scare the German off.

At least he was more subtle than the Red Spy and Sniper. All other REDs knew of what went on behind closed doors and base boundaries, and even some of the BLUs, the pair of them obviously displaying everything they had for each other. Bedroom eyes and cigarettes. Bloodlust and promises.

Viktor only hoped it was less unhealthy that it seemed and that the pair would actually stick together, the last thing their team needed was more heartbreak and arguments, distrust and a drive to get back at one another. He barely clung to the weak hope that the Sniper never finds out about the circulating rumor involving the Frenchman and a certain navy clad Scouts voluptuous mother.

He sighed.

He had truly thought that would just be one of those people that never fell in love. It hurt more than he imagined, but he reasoned to himself that it was because the object of his affections didn't even realize, but then he cursed himself in his own mind for calling his doctor an object.

He shook his head again. He really was in this deep. He was a killing, feared giant of a man for god's sake, he was meant to strike fear in men's hearts, not have another steal his own without even realizing it.

He was following his feet by now, not even focused on anything in particular, going wherever his legs took him.

He caught his own refection in a window as he passed, scarcely slowing his pace, the night hovering over the silver sands beyond cloudy and starless, his own face staring back at him fatigued and drained of colour.

With another weighty sigh, he continued on his way, and upon opening the door to the Respawn room, he found the man he wanted, not even doubting initially that he would be in his own bed.

The Engineer had his back to him at first, but turned to the Russian as he opened the door, the Texan sat a few feet from the machine.

" . . . .Couldn't sleep either?"

"Too much to think about, needed opinion."

"M'all ears."

The larger of the two stooped to the floor and sat next to the stout builder, who was equally in his pajamas and cradling a cup of cocoa.

". . . I want you to tell me how dis machine works. . . .how it brings people back."

The goggle-less American look up at him, the massive man towering over him. "That's an awful big question, partner. What's brought this on?"

"The BLU Spy, the one who hurt Medic, we saw him today. Not this new man, it was the old one."

The usually helmeted man frowned, and then took a big sip of his drink.

"I saw that frog today too, I could tell, it was definitely the same fella . . . Well, usually, how it works, Respawn is like taking a picture." The light and short haired man gestured with his hand to the machine in the middle of the room. "It remembers exactly what you look like before battle, so when you die out there, it brings you back exactly as it remembers you."

The tall, bald man nodded philosophically.

" . . . The Spy – ours – told me that he and Pyro killed their Spy. Properly, with sappers on their machine. . . ." He made eye contact with his teammate. "How is he still alive?"

A long pause.

"That's somethin' I can't answer, pal. Maybe he has a twin or something?"

"Couldn't, the way he taunted the Doktor today, it could only have been him."

The intelligent worker frowned in thought. " . . . Solly was the one bringin' the news. You saw how quiet he was. Maybe he knows somethin' we don't?"

Viktor risked a smile down at the laborer. "Are you telling me slow Soldier knows something Engineer doesn't?"

"Aw shush, you." The Engineer chortled and gave the taller man a slight shove, then took a sip of his cocoa. " . . .But mah point still stands, pal. HQ would definitely know about this sorta thing, and Spy and Soldier are the only ones who really contact 'em, Sol more so than Spy."

Another nod from the Russian.

"Will ask in morning. Do not want to be yelled at for disturbing his sleep."

The shorter man nodded as he drained the last of his hot chocolate drink. "Prob'ly best."

" . . . ..So Respawn is like a picture, hm?"

"S'right. S'why if you have an injury and it doesn't heal before the next battle, it would stay even if you respawned, you'd be stuck like that cus the machine would think you always look like that, get me?"

"Yes, I think. So that's how often it's taken? Each battle?"

"'Fore each battle, big guy. On both sides, to make it fair."

The older of the two was quiet for a moment, thinking. " . . . .then how did the BLU Spy come back? He died, he really died, the machine was sapped and he was killed properly."

"Again, partner, a question for Soldier."

Silence overtook the two mercenaries, theorems upon theorems mounting up over their heads until finally an unanswered question pushed its way to the front of the Heavy's mind.

" . . .Do sappers even work on Respawn machine?"

"Mh-hm. Them sappers are Mann Co products – they work on any other Mann Co piece a tech, includin' the Respawn machines, but _only_ Mann Co stuff. Same as how the Respawn only repairs injuries by Mann Co brand things – say you cut me with like. . .a knife from the kitchen, they ain't licensed in the machine, so I'd still have the cut even if I died and was brought back. S'why Demo's never gonna get his eye back, not only did it happen before the machine could touch him, it was done with an unbranded bomb."

"I see."

Another small silence, which lasted naught with the Texan.

" . . . .So Doc's really getting to ya, huh?"

If the builder was as vigilant as the Russian thought he was, he would spot the crimson flare across his cheeks.

" . . .He is a credit to the team." He shrugged it off. He shrugged it all off, everything, including the guilt of hiding his feelings and the laborers knowing gaze. "I would be worried for anyone else if they have been through the same as he has been."

The stockier man chuckled and stood, patting the mans shoulder as he began to turn.

"As long as you can cover it better than the Spy and the string bean, you'll be fine."

"That depends on who I want to cover it from, Engineer."

A soft chuckle and then the man was leaving.

"I see ya. Turn off the lights when you're done, and get some sleep big guy."

And then he was gone.

With another hefty sigh despite his smile, the tall man stood himself and leant against the live-preserving machine. It was build like some kind of slab, white surfaced all over but the faint whirr of electronic life that burned inside it was warning enough that the machine was definitely not inanimate. This was the machine that saved them everyday, that kept them alive, that taught them to hold no fear. It was a living miracle in itself.

Viktor patted the shiny, almost shimmering surface of the machine, and then turned; trudging out the door and closing it, heeding the Engineers word and clicking the light switch back off with a dull 'pop'.

With a more relaxed mind and feeling towards the day ahead (or was it already here? It was too late and/or early in the morning to tell), the giant of a man trudged back towards his currently shared room – not that he minded its current inhabitants in the slightest.

He opened his own door and couldn't help but smile when fake electronic light from the corridor he was leaving appeared in a long beacon slithering across his floor, bed, weapon and comrade as straight as an arrow from the huntsman, but then he stepped inside and let the wooden door shut and the room be suffused in a comfortable and unhaunted natural darkness.

Again with startling gentleness that he bestowed only upon his prized weapon, (and now the man in his bed), Heavy held one hand under the slimmer males deeply breathing chest and kept him still as he lifted the weighty mini-gun from the indent on the bed and lay her on the floor, slipping back into his place and settling back down, letting the still sleeping man get comfy yet again and hoping that the movement did not rouse him from his much needed and much deserved rest.

Still, it took him a moment to register the fact that his friends eyes had opened.

Smoky and cobalt, he may as well have been looking into a fresh morning sky.

" . . . . _Где ж ты был_?"

The use of his home language from the other almost startled the larger of the too, and despite its jumbledness and slurring from sleep, the pronunciation was crisp, and only proved how much his Medic had been learning from him. For him.

"Nowhere." His reply was as quiet as the ruffling of the sheets he lay on. "Go back to sleep, Medic."

"Nhn."

The physician let himself take in a deep, slow breath and settle once more, tired orbs fluttering shut again and his mouth became slack.

He was drained and worked far too hard for his own good.

At least tomorrow was an earned day off. A lazy day. Sunday.

Viktor let himself sleep.

* * *

By the time his doctor stirred, the Heavy was already awake, glasses resting across his once broken nose, a book in his hands, the soft noise of turning pages finally rousing the exhausted physician.

The brunette blinked once, twice, and then looked up at the taller man unfocusedly.

The blue eyes of his comrade where fixed on the book, scanning the page in silence, and the Medic poked his side gently to get his attention.

" . . . Guten Morgen."

The other chuckled and his warm eyes flicked from the page to the healers sleep relaxed face.

"And good morning to you." He beamed, obviously wide awake, pushing a solid thumb between the pages to keep his spot as he looked down at the smaller man curled up in his bed.

He had the eyes of an overworked underpaid old fool and the smile of a late teenager who had just had his first night with a lover.

A warm hand came up and ran itself through the doctors' dark hair, and the still half asleep man leant into his friends' palm, a deep chuckle vibrating through the others chest and broad shoulders

"Still asleep, Doktor?"

"Mm."

Another soft chuckle and the larger of the two spoke, voice quiet. "Then go back to sleep." And the Medic got comfy again, only marginally drowsy, more relaxed than anything, and curled closer.

". . . Vhat are you reading . . .?"

"It's a book that says things from Russian to English." The heavy artillery specialist smiled and reopened the pages. "Looking up vurds I do not yet know. Vant to get better."

The younger let out a dopey half smile, resting his right temple against the others strong shoulder. "I understand you vell enough, Herr."

"Vell, never too old to get better." Heavy contradicted, wrapping an arm around the slightly slim waist of the doctor, moving the book so he could see.

"I am stuck on dis vurd though."

He pointed, and the doctor found the word '_compassion'_ scrawled in fluid Russian text, and the brunette smiled.

"Zhats 'compassion', kamerade, it means. . ."He gesticulated, looking for the means to explain. ". . . like, zympathy, or pity, you know?"

"Ah, I see, сострадание, I think." The taller of the two nodded, smiled and brought the other closer by his hip, who then returned his smile and tried to will the spark of heat he felt appear across the bridge of his nose, but did not hesitate to nuzzle the shoulder he was resting on.

The page was dog-eared, the book put down, the glasses were slid off, and the other hand of the tall Russian ran through chocolate shaded hair again.

". . . Are you still tired?"

"m'not too bad."

" . . . .ve should get up."

"Ve should."

They lay there for at least the next half hour.

"We're not going anywhere, are ve?"

The German chuckled softly. "Not for a vhile." A long, deep, comfortable breath and a warm nose pressing slightly more into the Heavys collarbone.

". . . m'comfy."

"Is good way to start Sunday morning." A soft chuckle from the other, and the smaller man grinned.

"Cannot zhink of a better vay to start it."

"It vas pillow fight last time."

" . . . .Is zhat anozher challenge?"

* * *

By the time they had gotten up, breakfast was over, and it was well past noon.

Trailing into the living room, the Heavy and Medic found the rest of the team doing what they expected – taking a well earned break.

The Spy and Pyro seemed to be playing some intricate game of cards as the Scout pestered the Frenchman, the Sniper flicking through the televisions appalling amounts of static, and the Demoman, Engineer and Soldier sat telling some war story or another.

The Medic slinked up behind his masked European friend and set down a card, earning an annoyed mutter from the other masked man and the young Scout, while the Heavy sat with the three comrades, interrupting an outburst from the dark-skinned demolitions expert and the hard-headed Soldier. There were a couple of open bottles around them, but none empty.

"That helmet's clenching yer brain! I'm tellin' ye, ya rocket-jumpin' _arse_, it's physically impossible ta change weapons once you've drawn it!"

"NEGATORY! I have done it before, and I will do it again to show you, you bomb-bouncing bastard!"

"Vhat seems to be problem?"

The voice of reason, Engie, muttered something as the other two mercenaries were refraining themselves from throwing punches.

"They're arguin' over some weapon or another."

"Ah."

Viktor blinked at them, used to their bickering, and as the tall American drew back a fist, ready to knock the Scottish experts other eye out, the Russian easily grabbed the Soldier by the collar, and began to drag him out into the wood crafted corridor, ignoring the shouts, kicks, swung fists and sharp threats.

The patience-draining fighter was dropped into the hall, and the door shut with a faint click – the taller, broader man leaning against it, crossing his arms. Under his helmet, the American blinked.

"What's your problem, commie?" He challenged, unmoving besides his growling lips.

"What did headquarters tell you?" The bald mans eyes were scanning him, serious, and the Soldier shifted his balance slightly, not wanted to take a step back from the stern face.

". . . About?"

"Spy. BLU Spy."

He swallowed slightly, glanced to his left, then his right, then back at the heavy artilleryman.

"They . . . Kinda told me how . . . he can't. . . .Die, so to speak." The American gave an ugly frown, wrinkles creasing his nose where he was refraining himself from snarling.

This new information took a moment to sink into the taller mans brain.

" . . . .But none of us die; we have zhe Respawn to stop that. Or do you mean . . . properly?"

A short, tense nod.

"Properly, he can't die. . . .Ever."

The Heavys strong jaw clenched, and so did his fists.

"But." Soldier intervened before Viktor could say anything. "Neither can we."

The oddest of smiles played on his lips.

"Basically, they put it to me like this, getting new guys if the Respawn ever fails, new people have to be hired, new details filled in, and the Respawn system is sensitive and expensive to program, ya get me?"

". . .Da. . .?"

"Well, rather then get new people in, one both sides maybe, they've found a way ta keep us guys here. Like . . . you know Respawn sorta saves us how we are?"

"Like a picture, yes."

"Yes, kinda." He was grinning by now, happy to explain something, unused to being relied on for information besides battle tactics. He wasn't as mentally reliable outside of war like the Engineer or Medic. "Affirmative, well, it saves not just how we look, and our injuries and all that crap, its out memories, and favorite things and the stuff in our head that makes us who we are, get me?"

The Heavy nodded, understanding.

"So, those guys at HQ, they made it so if Respawn ever glitches, fails, gets sapped or something like that, those photographs as you say are saved before each battle, incase we go down and can't get back up, in case we properly die. So yeah, if we die without Respawn, it has this kinda. . . ." He muttered for a second. "How'd they put it. . . ." He got it. "Back-up, that's the word, this back-up feature, so we get brought back anyway."

" . . . .so, we can never die, never ever?" Viktor finally questioned, eyebrows furrowing somewhat."

"Basically, cadet, correct. But I don't know myself if Respawn or the Docs Medi-gun slow down aging, so we can only go for so long. I don't know what happens after that."

A little frown again, and the Soldier pushed up the brim of his helmet with a thick thumb.

". . .So why do BLUs look like us?"

The shorter, but firmer man blinked. This was not something he had thought through.

"I . . . . Don't know, private. I really don't" He shook his head somewhat. "I guess that headquarters just saved our information twice or something, so it isn't expensive for the other side to get new guys in either. Although, if they didn't, it could be a bit of an advantage, them losing money and having new sissies on their side every fight. But what can we do?" He shrugged.

"They look sort of different to us. Perhaps changed our 'back-up' a little?"

The rocket-jumper nodded with a grunt, and scratched at his chin.

"I guess. I mean, they can't be the originals, they must have come from us, right?"

"How do you think?"

"I'm just thinkin', we have all our memories before coming to RED, right? I remember fightin' for America before this, and I bet you remember being in your piece of shit commie-land too."

The taller of the two growled and clenched his jaw again, but brushed it off. He didn't need a trip to respawn himself if he started his fight with the hot blooded fighting machine.

"But you said yourself; back-ups have memories too. For all we know, we're just the duplicates."

The Russian frowned and let out a slight sigh.

His memories were perhaps not even his own, the thoughts of his home, mother, sister, niece, his school, education, skills, childhood, it could all just be lies.

His Doktor, he could just be a lie too, a fabrication of information, containing someone else's thoughts and feelings and personalities, memories for his own brother and mother and their deaths.

They were just shadows.

The Soldier shoved his arm.

"Cheer up there, King Kong, we're probably just thinkin' too hard about all this kinda crap. Let Engie and Doc worry about it, those guys are smarter than us, they'll make more sense of it all."

Heavy looked at the shorter man, and gave a slight nod, then a tiny shove came from the door he was leaning on, and Viktor moved away.

Kris' head appeared around the edge of it, a slight frown of concern marking his eyes.

"Are you two alright? You've been out here a vhile."

Sparing a slight glance at the American, Heavy nodded, and smiled.

"Da, we're coming back in now."

The Soldier to the side nodded and stepped in first, Medic standing to the side so the helmeted building of a man could come in, and he sat down, sliding back into his seat next to the Engineer, picking up his perspiring bottle of beer.

As Viktor stepped inside, he wrapped one arm around the shorter doctors' midriff and lifted him onto his broad shoulder as he had done what seemed a long time ago, only this time he didn't have to worry about the doctor reaching for a pillow to smack him with.

The doctor barely struggled, but merely squeaked in surprise, albeit loudly, and despite a few eyes, goggles, and masks turning to look at them, they watched with humor and a shine of respect for the two of them.

The Heavy slumped into a chair, his own end of the sofa inhabited by the masked gamers, as the physician rested across his lap.

Viktor abandoned all thoughts, whether they be of life or death.

"Is good Sunday. Good day of rest."

"It is."

The smaller of the two gave a smile and settled in the artillery mans hold.

They were surrounded by their friends and teammates in the warm, autumn desert, the faintest wind stirring the windows of a large, safe building, despite the rage and pain that circulated its walls.

Life was short, and war was long, but comradeship outshone both.

The Heavy gave a slight smile in return, voice quiet from the enclosement of teammates.

"Are you happy, Doktor?"

"More zhan I thought I ever could be in zhese circumstances."

" . . . .Good."

Contentness was rare and treasured among barracks.

Medic could only hope the next day that the never-ending wrath of battle didn't kill them.

Heavy could only hope that one day he could feel the same bravery outside the battle, where he was side to side with his Doktor as when he was in battle, in front of him, his guardian and protector.

Kristian and Viktor were safe, at least until the next morning, a lukewarm, stale Monday.

* * *

Midday, and a light breeze stroked across the faces of the mercenaries and a fine mist had descended over the sands, the usual tingling feeling of pre-war nerves and bloodlust beginning to boil, and the chestnut haired physician loaded his syringe gun and rotated his scarred leg, hoping to good Gott in himmel that it would not let him down on today of all days.

The usual screeching howl of the Announcer harped across no-mans land and the gates opened, the physician loyally following the Russian.

The war raged as war does, as despite the odd scratch here and there and the slightest twinge of trapped nerves in his leg, the Medic was unharmed, protecting his faithful friend against the barrage of steel bullets and unrelenting fire. One or twice the uncloaking sound of a no longer hiding Spy echoed behind him, but it was quickly drowned out by French screaming and the rumble of a hard-working flamethrower and its owner.

As the Announcers screech of crimson victory shrieked, somewhere in the midst of settling adrenaline and dust, a rasped cry rang out, quieter, that of a pained Frenchman, the cry short, but wholly noticeable, the rest of the mercenaries unhearing of the call as they returned to the base.

"Medic!"

Kris acted upon his well honed instinct and ran to the source of the shout, dodging and ducking between rubble and wreckage and half faded corpses of the Soldiers and the Scouts, until he found the injured Spy.

The wrong Spy.

The BLU lay against the torn apart pieces of a crippled RED dispenser, a Snipers shot had clipped his side and he was bleeding badly, sinewy muscle torn from his side and a half gaping hole that the doctor could fit three fingers into visible between pearly, bloody ribs.

The masked man wearily looked up, voice hoarse, and saw the doctor who he had taunted, who had cut off his head in revenge, whose Respawn trip he had sapped, who cut his head of in return yet again, and the man he had tortured.

Smoky, hazy, dying, ice eyes met the serene blue of the brunette physician, and after a half second of deciding upon the difference of justice, honor, and the realism of the indubitably unfathomable doctors' heart, Kristian knelt down at the mans side, the man who had kept him prisoner for almost four days, who had shredded his leg muscle to fine fabric, who had died before and come back anew.

" . . .Vhat _are_ you?"

A short cough, a hacking up of blood, and a rasped answer.

"I'm a Spy, you idiot."

The doctor smiled, uncruelly so, but the Frenchman could have taken it that way, if he was petty and stubborn enough.

"Zhat you are."

"Vhy are you _here_?" The semi gasping survivor growled bluntly, gloved hand grasping his side.

"You called for a Medic."

Unexpectedly, BLU gave a slight chuckle. "Oh, such bitter irony, _vous connard_."

The Medic smiled wider, unable to help it, and sat down in the bloodied dust, some part in the back of his extensive mind muttering the dangers of the knife wielding killer, but the majority stating that either way the holey prick was dying, and there was no way he had strength to do anything but throw dampened insults.

" . . . . _Kris__._" He snarled. ". . . .I just vant you to know. . . Zhat I fucking hate you."

The doctor laughed in the face of the dying Spy, who gave a slight, weak grin.

They were enemies.

They had done wrong.

They had killed before, both others and each other.

They were laughing at each other.

Breath dying, the Spy pulled off his mask.

The last time he had considered this, the roles were reversed – Kris was the one on the brink of death and the Spy tired from work but completely unharmed.

The Frenchman could not have been older than thirty; thick black hair, formerly tanned but even skin stretched across skinny but firm and sturdy cheekbones, and a deep, bruised scar disrupting the back of his smooth neck that had obviously been opened at least once before. Medic raised an eyebrow.

"I don't apologize, you know. For vhat I did. Your head and all zhat."

"Zhats because you are a bastard, mon ennemi RED."

"I know, but so are you, so its fine." The doctor shrugged. He still hated the Spy, and although would never admit it, show it, or say it even to himself, was scared.

He was terrified.

"You know," The now unmasked boy gurgled. "by zhe next battle, everyzhing will be as it was."

"And how do you figure zhat?" The German crossed his legs gracefully.

"I will alvays aim for you first, I vill alvays hate your guts, and I vill never, ever stop trying to degrade you, never stop digging up dirt on you, and we vill continue in zhis var till we both die for good. We are immortal here."

"Truth be told. . . . . I don't know how I could cope if it vas any ozher vay. Because of you, I'm . . . happy, so to speak. Content enough to live. I still hate you zhough, just to clarify."

The ebony haired man choked out a bark of a laugh, blood drooling from his lower lip.

"Bon. I vas vorried you had gone . . . soft . . . . For a second zhere." His eyes were getting more unfocused and his intake of air needier. Medic stood.

"You're going to leave me here zhen, hm?"

Kristian was a doctor. He was not heartless in any form. He had respect, he had faith, he had a future, and he knew how to deal with men in wars and men with pride.

And he shrugged.

"Vhat kind of RED vould I be if I helped you?"

With a smile, he turned and started on his way back to his home with his forever injured leg twitching weakly, the sound of the Spys last gargled laugh behind him.

Until his forever hated enemy drew his last breath and his body crumbled into fine blue power.

Respawn had found him so far out in the desert, picked him up, took him home.

Kristian smiled.

He would fight the Spy the next day with the same gusto they both shared.

And the next day.

And the next day.

And the day after that.

He could live with being immortal.

Content.

Home.


End file.
